Losing To Win
by Luck Kazajian
Summary: Bay Fisher just wants to be accepted. So when she declares to her best friend, Sean Kendrick, that she is riding in the Scorpio Races, she thinks she has it all under control. But how far is she really willing to go to reach her dream?
1. Chapter 1

**Hey, Scorpio Races fans! I loved the book, just finished reading it. And this is the idea it gave me. A few notes. I've tried to follow the time line of the book and major events, but they may not be completely accurate. But this is fanfiction, right? I don't own Scorpio Races or any character from the book. (but I wish I owned Sean ;) ) Please Review!**

**Full Summary**

All Bay Fisher has ever wanted is to be accepted. To be admired. So when she declares to her best friend Sean Kendrick that she is going to ride in the Scorpio Races, she thinks she has everything under control. She's captured her own _capall uisce_ and confirmed her intentions to ride. But when Benjamin Malvern makes a claim on her horse, Bay has to decide how far she wants to go to keep him. And just when she thinks she has the reigns once again, she must make a decision between fame and money or an invaluable friendship that she has taken for granted for years. Only when she is on the verge of losing everything she ever treasured does she realize just how blessed she really is…

**Chapter One**

**Bay**

It's early. Way too early for this. Jonathan Carroll is pounding on my door, loudly demanding that I get up. He's spouting a worried bunch of half-completed sentences. From what I gather it seems that a mainlander has tried to catch one of the _capall uisce_, but the horse had ended up catching him instead. At least my father isn't home, I think as I shake myself awake. Which is probably just as well for Jonathan, who's still pounding on the door.

"Fisher! Fisher, get up!" he yells. It's the first complete sentence he's managed so far. I can hear the note of panic in his voice.

"I'm coming!" I shout at the door as I roll off of the couch. I'm glad that I fell asleep in my clothes last night. It saves time as I throw on my sweatshirt and boots. The faster I can get to the beach, the more chance the mainlander will have. If he is even still alive. I barge out the door, nearly plowing over Jonathan in the process and head toward the beach with long, hurried strides. Jonathan trots to catch up to me. As we run, I quickly plait my tangled hair into a messy braid and tie it up with a spare piece of twine from my pocket. Reaching back into my pockets I finger the iron bar and the knotted ribbon that I always keep on me.

We get down to the beach just as the first pale fingers of dawn touch the overcast sky. There's already a small crowd of tourists and townsmen gathered on the sand. The tourists are probably all buddies of the idiot who tried to catch the horse. For their sakes I hope the mainlander is alright, but at the moment, they're not my focus.

Kendrick is already down on the beach, in the surf, so I head towards him. He is standing stiff and tense watching a coal black _capall uisce_ drag its thrashing victim out to sea. As I get closer, I can see the mainlander better. He is young, about twenty-three, I'd guess. Probably trying to catch the water horse on a dare to prove his bravado. Maybe even drunk. Either way, it was not a smart move on his part. I step up beside Sean and he gives me a stern glance and a nod. I brush stray strands of hair from my face and dip my head in return. We've done this many times before. I'm ready.

As we step out into the ocean the cold water laps at my legs, soaking into my boots. I'll have to spend hours later drying them out. But that's a small price to pay if we can save the young man. The _capall uisce_ has the man by the shoulder and already blood stains the water. Crimson threads wind their way past me was we walk forward. Even from here I can tell that the young man is in shock, his pupils dilated, his gaze glassy. Beside me Sean stars to murmur, that low, smooth voice he uses on Corr. It's like he's speaking a different language, one only the water horses can understand. The big _capall uisce_ stops toying with his victim and stands still, looking back at us. In the uncertain dawn light the water horse's eyes look blood red. His nostrils are flared, taking in the scent of the prey he's holding. His ears are somewhere between laid back and pricked forward. Every muscle in his broad, powerful chest is trembling.

Sean continues to talk gently. I'm not as good at communicating with the horses so I settle for making gentle shushing sounds with my tongue curled close to the roof of my mouth. I have to be able to feel the horse to calm it. I have to touch it. The _capall uisce_ remains motionless as we advance. I can't tell if it is because of Sean's talking or if it is because it is contemplating trying to kill us too. We're now about three feet away from the big animal. I take a couple of deep breaths, trying to still my racing heart. I'm no coward around the _capail uisce_, but this one is bigger than most, over five feet at the shoulder. Just then Sean hisses my name and I leap forward in a sudden explosion of action. It all comes down to this. If I miss, we might all three end up as breakfast for the black animal. But I don't miss. Even though my mind is skipping around like a frightened rabbit, my body reacts out of instinct and I grab a fistful of the water horse's mane, just behind his head. In almost the same movement, I shove an iron wedge into the horse's mouth. Flicking a catch with my thumb causes hidden springs in the wedge contraption to spring apart, forcing the horse's mouth open, forcing him to drop the young man. The mainlander tumbles into the choppy water and Sean immediately lunges for him, dragging him upright by the collar of his jacket. The young man staggers, but finds his feet and manages to remain standing. Sean spins him toward the shore and gives him a slight shove. The mainlander doesn't need any more urging. Despite his bloody, disoriented state, he splashes halfway back to the beach before he collapses and by that time he is an indistinct blur in my peripheral vision. I see a second blur detach themselves from the crowd and run toward the mainlander. I turn my focus entirely on the _capall uisce_.

My fingers still maintain their solid grip on the iron wedge—it's all that's keeping the water horse form ripping the two of us to shreds. Sean is still whispering, but his voice has a hoarse edge to it now. We both know that it is our responsibility to make sure that the _capall uisce_ goes back into the ocean and not to the beach where the crowd still remains. Sean has a red ribbon pressed solidly between the horse's eyes. Slowly, ever so slowly, we begin to turn the animal back out to the open sea. The fingers of my right hand are still tangled in his mane; they feel like they are frozen there. I use the leverage to turn the _capall uisce's_ head. Finally, we get him to face the ocean again. I can feel the powerful horse tremble beneath my hands and I know the water calls him. Sean signals me and I pull the wedge from the horse's mouth. Without restraint, if flings open into what looks something like a horse's bit. I shove it back into my sweatshirt pocket. Sean leans his weight against the horse's neck and talks into its ear, then, signaling me again, we both let go and step back. The horse bounds away then wheels and stares us down. Sean tenses, tighter than a drawn bowstring and I reach into my pockets for my iron and my ribbon, but then the _capall uisce_ flings up its head and with an unearthly scream, it throws itself into the waves and disappears. I breathe a sigh of relief. Beside me Sean relaxes, but there is still a frown in his eyes. I know why. The mainlander was stupid, coming out here like he did, endangering himself, endangering others, endangering us. And all for a terrific shoulder wound and nothing to show for it.

As Kendrick and I slog back through the surf to the beach I clench my hands into fists to still their trembling. Relief and adrenaline course through me in equal amounts, as I'm sure they do Sean, but I'm not as good at hiding all outward signs of my inward feelings as he is. When we reach the crowd someone calls Sean's name. He looks up to see a tourist coming towards us. When the tourist reaches us he shakes Sean's hand and then mine in an attitude of thanks.

"They told me you were good," he says breathlessly. "But I want to thank you. Both of you. If not for you, my friend would have been…well," he clears his throat awkwardly, "you know."

If he was in at all on this little adventure, he is probably feeling very ashamed right about now.

Seeing that Sean won't say anything, I inquire about the young man we rescued.

"Oh, yes," the tourist smiles faintly. "A couple of your village men took him up to the hospital. He seems okay though." The young man's smile fades, as if he's not quite convinced of his own words.

"I'm sure he'll be fine," I say, trying to be encouraging.

"Well, thanks again," the tourist replies. "I'm just glad you two knew what you were doing."

"You're just glad that that _capall uisce_ had eaten well recently, and didn't devour your friend straight off," Sean says matter-of-factly. And with that sobering statement, he brushes past the tourist and strides up the beach. I don't know what else to say so I excuse myself as politely as possible and run to catch up with Sean.

* * *

><p>Later that night I'm sitting in Sean's little flat above the Malvern stables. Sean is making tea for both of us, which is an extremely outward show of kindness on his part. He's shuffling around in what could be termed the kitchen of his tiny apartment. The flat is more like one big room actually, partly sectioned off into a kitchen and a cross between Sean's bedroom and a sitting room. Not that Sean ever really has any guests. His kitchen is pretty tidy. Then again, it is pretty easy to keep it clean when there is only one of you and all you own is two plates and two forks. His room on the other hand clearly belongs to a guy. An old pair of boots sits in one corner. The shoes are obviously past use—the laces are knotted in several places where they've broken, the soles are separating from the boot, and there are holes in the toe stuffed with rags—but Sean still hasn't gotten rid of them. Yesterday's clothes are in a dirty heap half-shoved under the bed which is only partially made. But I don't care because the room feels lived in. More so than my house ever feels like.<p>

Just then Sean walks over with two steaming cups of tea. He hands one to me before dropping onto his bed with a sigh. Besides a straight-backed wooden chair, his kitchen table, and a dresser, I'm sitting on the only other piece of furniture in the whole apartment—a worn loveseat. Although Sean stubbornly, emotionlessly refers to it as a couch. I take a sip of my tea and smile. Sean has fixed it just the way I like it, with so much sugar that I'm practically drinking white gritty syrup. As for Sean, I know he's drinking the tea straight and bitter.

Sean is silent so I start a conversation. I say what has been on my mind all day since this morning's incident, "Idiot mainlander."

Sean looks at me with something bordering a smile shadowing his mouth and slides back against the wall behind him, stretching his legs in front of him. He answers me with a sort of non-committal mutter. I can't even tell if it is a literal word or not.

Then, "I'm sorry you got called into it," he says in one of his rare moments of compassion. "But Jonathan had gone to get you before I even got to the beach."

"Don't be silly," I chide, but inside I'm enjoying Sean's concern. "You couldn't have taken that _capall uisce_ all by yourself."

Sean raises his eyebrows but says nothing. In all reality, he probably could have taken that horse all by himself, but I know he is more comfortable with my help. Anyone would want someone by their side when facing those demon horses. We are both silent for a while, just enjoying each other's quiet company.

I watch Sean over the rim of my tea cup, gauging his mood. He's tired, sitting with his head tilted back and his eyes half-closed. He is rarely this comfortable around people, but at the moment he is completely relaxed. There's something I've been thinking about for quite a while and I've finally made my decision. I clear my throat.

"I'm riding in the races," I say.

Sean opens his eyes completely and stares at me entirely without expression. He's not angry or proud or cautious or excited he's just sitting there. "You're a girl," he says. It's not a question, but it's not a statement either.

"There's no rule against it," I answer and I'm surprised to hear a defiant tone in my voice.

Sean purses his lips into a thin, straight line. It's a face he takes on when he's thinking hard or disappointed. I'm not sure which he means at the moment. Maybe both.

"Do you have a horse?" he finally asks.

"Not yet. But I will." I swirl the remaining dregs of tea around the bottom of my cup. "Tomorrow," I add.

"But where are you—" Sean begins, but breaks off as realization dawns on him. "You're going to catch one." Again, it is not a question.

"Yes."

Sean frowns.

"I'm not just going to catch any _capaill uisce_," I say quietly. "I already have one picked out."

Sean still doesn't say anything, but I know he's waiting on my answer anyway.

"I've been going down to the beach every morning I get the chance and I've found myself a horse," I explain. "I call him Tempest."

I know I've got Sean's full attention now.

"You've ridden him?" This time it is a question and there is a breath of something I can't identify in it. Awe, admiration maybe.

I nod my head. "He's fast as the wind."

Sean narrows his eyes and I know what he is thinking.

"Maybe even as fast as Corr," I can't help bragging just a little even thought I risk turning Sean off.

"We'll see," is all he says.

We're quiet again then I ask, "Do you want to see him? I'm going to catch him tomorrow morning."

Sean puts his tongue in his cheek like he does when he's considering something very carefully. "If you're getting him in the morning then I'm getting some sleep."

I grin as Sean sets his empty tea cup aside and begins unlacing his boots. I know that means yes. Sean slides both his empty cup and his boots under the bed where they won't be stepped on then slips off his shirt and burrows under his blankets, his back to me. I also know that I won't get anything else out of him tonight. But I'm satisfied. Stepping over to the switch on the wall, I turn out the light and proceed to get ready for bed. Sean usually offers me his bed when I stay at his place. It is his quiet gentlemanly side showing through, but tonight he refrained. Not that I mind too much; I've slept on the _couch_ before. I think it is Sean's way of showing me he is irritated. The loveseat is too short to be really comfortable. I have to sleep curled up or let my legs hang over the side and it is even worse for Sean who is taller, but it is warm enough with Sean's extra blankets and a rolled up sweatshirt for a pillow. I lie awake for a long while after I turn out the lights, thinking about tomorrow, thinking about the races. Sean falls asleep quickly, his steady breathing the only sound in the quiet room. Except for the occasional whinny from the horses below us, the outside is pretty quiet too. The rhythm of Sean's breath finally lulls me to sleep. I dream of the sea and the _capaill uisce._ My _capall uisce._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

**Bay**

When I wake up it is dark. Sean is still asleep and the world is silent. I feel like I've only been asleep for a few minutes but when I glance at my watch the glowing hands show four-thirty a.m. A thrill of excitement races through me, robbing me of any last shreds of sleep. Through the single small window over Sean's bed I see gray clouds scudding across a starry, inky blue-black sky. It's perfect _capail uisce_ hunting weather. I roll off of the loveseat and pull on my sweatshirt, stumbling into Sean's tiny bathroom. I pull the door closed and am lost in temporary darkness before my groping fingers find the light switch. My eyes water and I squint as light floods the little room. I don't know who was kidding themselves when they built this bathroom. I think it is actually an old closet because it barely fits the shower, toilet, and sink that are shoved into it. I splash water on my face and look at myself in the mirror. Light brown eyes shaded under strands of straight sandy hair stare back at me. They're determined and serious and, if I'm honest with myself, just a little afraid. I pull my lips into a small frown and let my hair out of yesterday's braid. It falls past my shoulders in tangled knots. I don't have a brush so I comb it out with my fingers as best I can. Then I re-braid it, putting a twist into every third and seventh crossover. When I secure it with the twine again, I tie it into a complicated bow with twists and loops that are supposed to help protect me from the _capaill uisce_. Sometimes I think these little rituals are more superstition than anything else, but I still do them. When facing the water horses anything that will ward off their magic is a good thing.

When I walk out of the bathroom, Sean is awake and already fully dressed, even down to his jacket and boots. He doesn't say anything, just gives me this little nod. I'm impressed; I did not think I had made any noise or indication of being awake, but Sean is fully alert nonetheless.

Before we leave I load my pockets with all kinds of charms and counter curses—iron, ribbon, salt, a stone with a hole in the center, and any other odd scraps I find around Sean's house. In the very bottom of my pocket are a few holly berries. Just in case. I know Sean is similarly loaded down.

We leave Sean's apartment without speaking. As we pass through the stables below I grab a halter and lead from the tack room. "I'll return them," I say to Sean's somewhat accusatory gaze. The halter and lead I've chosen are old and nothing fancy. It is very likely no one will even notice they are missing. With that, we leave the Malvern stables and head to the beach. Skarmouth is still locked in silent slumber at this hour. There's hardly a light anywhere besides the flashlight in Sean's hand. The cold October air robs the breath from my lungs as we reach the cliffs. Below me the wide strip of sandy beach stretches out, pale and white in the faint moonlight. Safe. Beyond that the sea seethes like a hungry predator. I wouldn't call it rough, not yet, but it is rolling this morning. The odd patches of shadow from the clouds shying across the moon dart down the beach and disappear in the sea as if they are devoured. The breakers become a long tongue greedily licking and snatching for more. For me. I suddenly realize that I've stopped walking and am staring down at the sea. Sean is a few feet ahead of me, waiting patient and still, the flashlight beam pooling at my feet. I can't see his face well enough to tell what he is thinking. With a toss of my head I catch up to him. It takes us a little while to wind our way down the cliffs in the dark, but we've done it so many times before that finding footholds on the treacherous, rocky path is nearly second nature. We cross the beach, leaving two sets of neat footprints, side by side. When we leave, there will be a third set of footprints. The hoof prints of my _capall uisce_.

"Thanks for coming," I say, my voice just above a whisper. It seems wrong somehow to disturb the peace that surrounds us. I know Sean can barely hear me over the _shush, shush_ of the waves, but I know he understands anyway. He nods then turns his attention out to sea. He'll be my extra eyes as I focus on catching Tempest. In this uncertain dark it is just as easy to hunt a _capall uisce_ as it is to be hunted by one.

With Sean at my back, I walk out into the waves. The cold immediately soaks into my skin, sending a shiver up my spine. My clothes are damp with sea spray in an instant. When the water reaches my calves I stop. The ocean tugs at me, shifting the sand under my feet and dragging at my pants and boots, but I refuse to budge. Reaching into my pocket I grip one of my iron rods and a little packet of salt. Then I take a deep breath and, throwing my head back, I mimic the call of the _capaill uisce_. It is the plaintive, haunting scream of a foal seeking its mother, or the broken song of a stallion calling his mare. Behind me Sean starts. I don't see his movement as much as sense it, but I know why it startles him. This is probably the most dangerous way to hunt a _capall uisce_ because you risk calling whatever _capaill uisce_ happen to be in earshot of your call. But I'm not too concerned. Over the weeks that I've been coming to the beach, I've altered my call in a manner that Tempest has become familiar with. My call is just different enough from an actual _capall uisce's_ that I'm pretty confident it won't attract them. At least not too quickly. I've used the call before so I'm pretty prepared for the results.

My cry dies out on the sea breeze and I don't repeat it. That would just be asking for trouble. Now all that's left to do is wait. I shiver as the wind picks up, whipping strands of hair from my braid. For a long while, nothing happens. It is just me and Sean and the sky and the sea. It's dead still around us, like the calm before a storm, and, except for the restless sea, it is quiet. Sean shifts his weight form one foot to the other and the small beam from his flashlight wavers as he does so. It is his version of asking, "So, what now?"

I don't answer the unspoken question. Instead I scan the waves for a sign of the _capaill uisce_. Any sign, any horse. Just as I begin to doubt the success of this little venture, a dark head bursts from the water in front of me, pealing in triumph and flinging salt spray from its thick mane. For a moment I tense, but just as quickly relax. It is Tempest. I whistle, low and steady, a sound I've trained Tempest to. Tempest swims toward me then walks as his feet touch the sandy bottom. He comes straight up to me and stops, standing quietly. He eyes Sean curiously but with no hint of malice. It helps that Sean is calm and familiar with _capaill uisce_ already.

"Good boy, Tempest," I croon and he draws himself up to his full height, a haughty air about his stance. He's a deep dark gray color, the color of the sea in a storm or the sky when it dumps buckets of rain on Thisby. He's small for a _capall uisce_, but still on the big side for a horse. Every line of his body speaks speed—the length of his legs, the slope of his back, the tilt of his neck, even the curious prick of his ears. His eyes are immeasurably black, his mane a shade darker than the rest of him. He's proud and wild and strong and mine.

I reach my right hand out slowly. Though I hold nothing in it, my left is buried deep in my pocket, ready to pull any number of the charms on Tempest if need be. I touch Tempest's nose, rubbing little circles across it with my fingers. Slowly I work my way up his nose to his forehead until I'm scratching the little indention behind his ear. Tempest lets out a thrum of pleasure. It's a deep vibrating sound peculiar to the _capaill uisce_. It is something like a cat's purr, only deeper. It is a sound you feel more than hear.

Tempest lowers his head against my chest and snorts a breath between his lips. I feel it tickle against my stomach. Sean takes a deep breath through his nose and leans forward, his equivalent of jumping a foot in the air with fright. I know it is dangerous to let a _capall uisce_ get this close, but I trust Tempest. Some small part of me also wants to show off to Sean Kendrick, horse-trainer extraordinaire. I want to prove that I'm not just good at being Sean's sidekick, but I can also be his equal.

I shrug the halter off my shoulder from where I'd slung it earlier to free my hands. By this time, I'm continually whispering into Tempest's ear. When I'm with Tempest, I feel like I am speaking a different language. A language only he and I can understand. Keeping my voice and my movements steady I slip the halter over Tempest's head. My fingers tremble ever so slightly and I tell myself that it is the cold, but I know it is really because I'm just a little nervous. I've haltered Tempest once before, but there's still a chance he might reject it. He takes it quietly though and I don't even have to use the iron bar that I've tucked into my left hand. Taking his lead in a firm grip I turn to face Sean. It's a move of trust and a little bravado on my part because it puts my back toward Tempest. I gauge Sean's face carefully, because I know his eyes are on Tempest, but he remains quiet and impassive. Sean's simple action, or lack thereof, is what finalizes my choice in Tempest. I splash back to the beach with Tempest in tow. When I get level with Sean I stop and raise an eyebrow at him. That is his cue to assess tempest. Sean casts an eye over the water horse with a somewhat critical air.

"He's still not faster than Corr," he finally says. I grin. I know it's a compliment.

* * *

><p>Sean and I walk back to Skarmouth one on either side of Tempest's head. We crest the cliffs just as the sun begins to rise. I keep a tight hold on Tempest's halter, just in case he should try to return to the sea. I've tied red ribbon to his halter so that it flutters in the breeze, brushing across my forehead as I walk beside him. Tempest shies once when we get to the road to Skarmouth. He throws his head back, pulling me off balance, and screams for the sea. As soon as I find my feet, I begin to trace circles on his shoulder with an iron rod. Tempest whirls back towards the sea and strains against me. I dig my heels in, but I know I can't stop two thousand pounds of <em>capaill uisce<em> from dragging me down to the beach. Sean jumps to Tempest's other side and hooks his fingers under the halter as well. His other hand is buried deep in his pocket and I know what it is holding. I just hope he doesn't have to use it. It takes both of us and a good amount of salt and iron to get Tempest under control again. When we finally do, the ground beneath us is a mass of foot and hoof prints gouged and scuffed into the dirt. Sean looks at me levelly, but I can see his chest rise and fall with the force of his breathing. I'm panting, but I keep a firm grasp on Tempest who is still prancing in place. I whisper to my horse and give his halter a sharp tug to get him walking again. Just before we reach Skarmouth Sean turns to me and says over Tempest's nose, "Where are you going to keep him?"

I take a deep breath. It's a question that I've wrestled with myself. In my mind I know where I want to keep him. Saying it aloud might make it sound foolish. "At home. There's an extra stall in the old stable."

"What about your dad?" Sean asks quietly. I know his question is not to spite me, but it still stings.

My mother was killed by a _capaill uisce_ when I was so young that I can barely remember her. But my father remembers and he has never forgiven the horses. He hates them, hates the races, hates the sea, hates anything to do with them. Which is why I'm suddenly taken with a case of nerves at the mention of him. He will be anything but pleased when he discovers my intentions, so I'm hoping he won't be home yet. He didn't come home the night before last, which means he probably spent all his money drinking in town. I have no idea if he will be home or what kind of mood he will be in. I clear my throat. "My dad is scared of the _capaill uisce_," I finally answer. "He won't touch Tempest." I sound a lot more confident than I feel.

Sean nods solemnly as we reach the Malvern Yards. It's almost six now and he will have to hurry to show up to work on time. "If you need any help…" he trails off. I know he's referring to right now as well as anytime in the future.

"I'm fine, thanks," I say, once again with more confidence than I feel.

Sean opens the gate to the Malvern Yards and walks through. Just before he closes it, he stops and turns back to me. For a second he looks like he's going to say something then he just nods and latches the gate, striding into the Yards like he owns them.

I turn back towards town and coax Tempest into a walk again. The fact that Sean Kendrick believes I can handle a _capaill uisce_ all by myself means that he trusts me. It helps to shore up my confidence which is slipping away faster than sand in the tide. But I needn't have worried. After taking a roundabout route in order to avoid taking Tempest straight through town I arrive at home. It's just like I left it yesterday morning. Dark, still, and empty. In some ways I'm glad because it means I won't have to face my dad yet, but it also prolongs the conversation I know I will have to have with him. I have no idea where my father is right now, but I know better than to go looking for him, so I take Tempest to the barn. Actually, barn isn't the right word. It's just a two-stall shed with a tiny tack room and a loft for some hay. It is full of old tools and a broken wheel-barrow and a rusty saw or two. Our horse Selkie stands in one stall, dozing. I turn Tempest out into the pasture beside the barn while I clean out the second stall for him. While I prepare it I keep a wary eye on Tempest, half-expecting him to run the whole time, but he doesn't. He investigates the pasture then stands perfectly still in the center of the circular enclosure. His head is up and his ears pricked but he is calm—I think. It takes me several hours to get the stall ready. First I have to clean it out and spread fresh straw across it. Then I have to line it with bits of iron and salt. I tack red ribbon to the doorposts and secure the door with a sprig of holly tucked into the latch. When I've done everything I can think of to safeguard the stall, I bring Tempest into it. When Tempest's hooves cross the threshold of the barn, Selkie throws his head up, immediately alert. He lets out a high-pitched whinny that borders on fear. Tempest hears it and his ears prick. Selkie's actions speak to him and they are saying _prey_. I twist my fingers into Tempest's mane, tying it in knots, and turn him in three small counterclockwise circles before pushing him into his stall. Selkie watches warily, but his ears aren't laid back and he's more cautious than frightened. I settle Tempest then back out of the stall, spitting on the threshold before I close the door. It's something I've seen Sean do with Corr. With a smile, I lean back against the stall door. I've got my ticket to ride.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

**Bay**

Three nights later I'm heading to town with Sean. Tonight is the night that the all the boys and men on Thisby with intentions to participate in the Scorpio Races declare their mounts, unofficially, and pay their entry fees. All the boys and men—and me. I'm excited, but also nervous. I have no idea how others will react to my decision. Sean walks beside me in silence. I still can't tell whether he approves of me racing or not. He's yet to tell me that he disagrees, but he hasn't agreed with me either.

It's dark before we reach Skarmouth. As we walk through town, I can feel the excitement of the races already settling into the streets and buildings around me. Laughing groups of boys stand on the sidewalks, daring each other to enter the races and boasting of what they would do if they won. Tonight, Skarmouth is full of racers, braggarts, and want-to-be heroes. People call to Sean as he walks down the street; most of the time, he doesn't answer. Excitement and tension run in equal amounts in the air. Sean and I make our way to the butcher's shop, where the chalkboard will already be full of potential riders. As we get closer, my stomach lurches. I'm about to change history tonight. I'm going to be the first girl ever to ride in the Scorpio Races and, for reasons I can't explain, this is the most daunting challenge I've ever undertaken. We enter the heat and the bustle of the butcher shop. It is a sharp contrast from the cold, open quality of the streets. Sean takes his place in the line of men waiting for Peg Gratton to sign their names on the board. When I don't join him, he gives me a quizzical glance. I motion helplessly towards the wall and kind of mutter something under my breath. It's unintelligible, even to me. Standing here in the butcher's shop has suddenly put an unexpected twist of nerves in my belly. Sean shrugs and goes back to surveying the board of riders. I walk over to the wall and lean against it, observing the people. There's lots of Skarmouth residents packed into a relatively small space. I know most of them, but there are a few unfamiliar faces. They might even be mainlanders, come over early for the Scorpio Festival and then the Races.

Several minutes pass and Sean is nearly in the front of the line when Puck Connolly slips in. She's the last person on Thisby that I ever expected to come through that door. Immediately, my interest is piqued. Her appearance is just too coincidental to be ordinary. No one seems to pay her much attention as she steps into the room. She's jostled into line by the crowd of people but she stays there. I watch curiously as Puck slowly advances towards the front of the line. A few people say a word or two to her and she responds briefly. By now Sean has made it to the counter and Peg is scrawling his name in chalk, right at the top of the board. It's a space she's left blank for just that purpose. And then, to the side, she scribbles Corr. Sean turns away from the counter and I notice Puck watching him warily. A few more riders give Peg their names and then it is Puck Connolly's turn. There's an audible hush as she steps up to the counter. Peg gives her a smile and asks her what she wants to order. Puck pulls a face and says, nearly too quiet for me to hear, "I'm here to enter the races."

Those are the last words I ever expected to come out of Puck Connolly's mouth. Apparently Peg shares my sentiments, as does most everyone else in the room. Puck blushes as the room goes from quiet to silent, all attention focused on her. But she remains firm and lays her entry fee on the counter. It's like she's daring someone to contradict her, but I see her hands shake before she stuffs them in her pockets. She's afraid. Peg scoops the money off the counter with a slight frown, but she turns and writes Puck's name on the board nonetheless.

"And your horse's name?" she asks, turning back to Puck.

"Dove," Puck says quietly. There's something about the way she says it that rouses my suspicions, but who am I to say anything against her?

Peg says something to Puck, but the conversations in the room have started up again, some in outrage against Puck, and I can't hear exactly what she says. Puck answers and frowns, but Peg writes the name on the board. I step closer to the counter to hear better.

"Um…" Puck clears her throat. "Are there any rules?" she stutters. "About the horses, I mean?"

"Here, dear," Peg reaches under the counter and pulls out a rule sheet. She hands it to Puck with a look of concern.

Puck scans the rule sheet briefly and I see something lift from her face, like a worry of hers has just been erased. "Thanks," she says, crumpling the rule sheet into her sweater pocket. Then she turns and walks outside. For a moment, no one moves, as if they can't quite believe that a girl just entered the races, and then business continues as usual. Race business. That's when I make my move. If Puck Connolly can enter the Scorpio Races, and there are absolutely no reasons on earth that I can think of why she would, then so can I. I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants and step into line. Like Puck, no one pays me much attention. Someone brushes my shoulder. It's Sean.

"I'll be outside." He motions toward the door with his head.

I nod. "Okay," I whisper.

"Good luck," he says and it's the first thing he's said to me that has anything to do with the Races, positive or otherwise, since the night I first announced my decision. He turns and strolls out the door, parting the crowd as easily as if they are grass underfoot. But those two simple words have given me the guts I need to put my name on the big chalk-board behind Peg Gratton.

The closer I get to the counter the more voices I hear whispering behind my back. They've ignored me for as long as they could, but there's no hiding my intentions now. Because of Puck I'm causing a bigger scene than I really wanted. I'm regretting waiting around to put my name up now. I keep my head up and disregard the comments as I get to the counter. Peg turns from writing the last name on the board and comes face to face with me. She looks startled at first, but then hides it with a smile.

"What can I do for you, Bay?"

I lean on the counter in what I hope is a casual fashion, but I'm really trying to stop my knees from trembling. "Put my name on that board, Peg," I answer.

Peg sighs as she fingers the chalk in her right hand. "You too, dear?" she asks.

In my defense, I was in the room before Puck, but I wasn't at the counter before her. "Yes, ma'am."

"Are you sure about this, Bay? This isn't a girls' game, you know. It's dangerous. And deadly."

"I know. I'm sure," I say. I wonder if this is what Peg told Puck earlier.

"Do you have the entry fee?" Peg sounds resigned, like she's giving me one more chance to back down, but she knows I won't listen.

In answer, I pull the fee from my pocket and slap it on the counter. Peg gathers it up with a sad expression then turns and writes my name on the board. The board is almost full so Peg squeezes my name under Sean's. I think it looks good there under the name of the champion of the Scorpio Races.

"And your horse?" Peg looks over her shoulder at me.

"Tempest." When I answer, my voice is proud and strong and I know I've made the right decision.

Peg has a bold, clear hand and when she writes Tempest's name, she seems to give it the full emphasis of all his character. I smile and turn away, striding confidently from the room. I'm now a part of the Scorpio Races.

When I step outside the first thing I notice is Mutt Malvern. He's staring down Sean just out of the light spilling from the butcher shop windows. The second thing I notice is Puck Connolly. She's still in town, lingering on the corner of the street, watching the little scene between Sean and Mutt with something bordering apprehension on her face. I don't know what Mutt just said to Sean, but they both have hatred written clearly on their features. Mutt wears his expressions openly on his face, in the discord of his movements, and in the intensity of his gestures. By contrast, Sean is quiet and still but I know him well enough to read what he's feeling. I can see it in the tension that shadows his posture.

"Think you're better than me, do you? Think you can dictate who I ride again this year?" Mutt growls as I start toward them.

Sean doesn't reply. Instead he turns on his heel and begins to walk away. Mutt reaches out and grabs his arm, spinning him back towards him.

"Answer me when I'm speaking to you!" he snarls. Then he spits. In Sean's face. And that's the last straw. I was mad before, but I am not about to stand aside and watch Mutt insult Sean like that. I march straight up to Mutt.

"Good evening, Mutt," I say, and when he turns toward me, I punch him in the face. If there's one thing my father has taught me, it is how to throw a punch. I feel the shock up to my elbow as Mutt howls in pain and clutches at his face, blood welling between his fingers. It's very likely I just broke his nose.

He shouts, a wordless cry of rage, and grabs me by the front of my jacket. This isn't how I planned it, I think frantically as Mutt draws his fist back. Apparently he's very ready to hit me, despite the fact that I am at least a good eight inches shorter than him and a girl on top of that. Sean jumps in front of me just as Mutt begins to throw his punch. At the same time, Thomas Gratton steps out of the butcher shop and yells across the street, "Boys!"

Mutt lets his punch slide to the side and Sean takes it in the shoulder. It still knocks him back a step or two. Mutt quickly lets me go, but there's a bloody hand print on the front of my jacket now. Even so, it is too late. Gratton already saw what Mutt intended to do. "That's no way to treat a woman, Matthew Malvern." He glares at Mutt. Mutt starts to protest. Gratton cuts him off, "I don't know what this is about and I don't know who instigated it." This time he levels his gaze on me. "But it's late. Don't you think it's time for the three of you to head on home?"

Mutt glowers at Sean and me then turns and slouches off. Thomas Gratton stands in the doorway until Sean and I walk away as well. When I look back to where Puck had been watching there is no sign of her.

When we get out of sight of the butcher shop, Sean stops. I turn back to find him massaging his shoulder and staring at me with an unreadable expression. "Why?" is all he says.

"Because you wouldn't," I answer. I'm still riled up over Mutt insulting Sean and over the fact that Mutt grabbed me.

"I wouldn't?" Sean repeats me mockingly. "You forget who I work for, Bay Fisher."

"And sometimes you forget to stand up for what is important." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

Sean narrows his eyes and looks past me to a point over my shoulder. He's keeping a close reign on his face and I can't tell exactly how he feels, but I know there's disappointment written there somewhere.

"You've made yourself an enemy," Sean finally says in a low voice. For a split second I wonder if he is referring to himself.

I'm silent for a long while, listening to the faint sea breeze wind its way between the buildings around us. "I'm sorry," I finally whisper.

Sean grunts and starts walking again. I let him get ahead of me and trail behind him. When we reach the edge of Skarmouth, we split ways, me to my house and Sean to the Malvern Yards. He doesn't say anything to me as we part so neither do I. I feel bad for driving this division between us, but, at the moment, I don't know how to undo what I've done.

I'm already in a bad mood as I approach the house. As I get closer I can see lights shining through the dark and my heart sinks. I didn't leave those on, so it can mean only one thing—my father has come home. Suddenly I hear a scream; it's the husky scream of a _capall uisce_ on the defensive. I break into a run, my feet flying over the packed dirt of the road. My dad has found Tempest and it can only be bad, for him or my horse. I skid into the yard and angle myself toward the fence. My dad is out in the pasture with an old pitchfork from the shed, shouting at Tempest. I wouldn't exactly say he is chasing Tempest; he's standing in one corner of the pasture, threatening my horse and making jabs at him whenever Tempest gets too close. Tempest is not really frightened, but he's provoked and upset. If it were any other _capaill uisce_ in the enclosure with my father, Dad probably wouldn't still be alive. As it is, Tempest is nearly to his breaking point. I can see three long scratches across Tempest's chest where Dad must have managed to hit him with the pitchfork. They aren't deep, but they are jagged. I run up to the edge of the fence. If Dad notices me, he doesn't say anything. I know I've got to intervene, and quickly. I climb to the top of the fence and perch on the highest rail.

"Dad, stop!" I shout. "He won't hurt you!"

"Bay!" he yells, as if he is surprised to see me here. "You stay out of this!"

"No!" I cry as Tempest passes close to Dad and Dad swings the pitchfork at him.

Tempest is rounding the pasture again, and I know, this time, he means to harm my father. I can't let that happen. Tempest is coming straight toward me now. I coil myself on the rail and wait for just the right moment. Tempest rounds the corner and I spring, landing square on his back, digging my fingers into his mane to keep my seat. I wrap my legs tightly around him.

"Tempest!" I call, but he doesn't listen at first. I lean forward as far as I dare and begin whispering in his ear. As I do, I pull an iron rod from my pocket and start tracing the veins in his neck and rubbing counterclockwise circles across his shoulders. I twist his mane around my fingers and use every ounce of influence I have over him. Even so, I don't get him turned away from my father in time. Tempest stops so suddenly, that I slide forward over his neck and roll off into the dirt. I'm on my feet again before I've even stopped falling. Tempest rears up, and my Dad is backing away from him as quick as he can, but then his back hits the fence and he has nowhere else to go. I do the only, and perhaps stupidest, thing I can think of. I throw myself in front of Tempest, between those deadly hooves and my father. For a moment, time freezes and I see everything around me in sharp clarity. I see the anger on my father's face replaced with fear, the powerful aggression in Tempest's eyes, his sharp, deadly hooves hovering almost directly over my head. Then time speeds up again and my brain remembers how to communicate with my mouth.

"Tempest! No!" I shout. I brace myself for the impact of death, but Tempest starts at my voice and manages to angle himself away from me. His hooves crash into the ground mere inches from where I stand. Tempest draws his lips away from his teeth and makes a deep thrumming sound from his chest. It's the angry version of his contented purr and it almost sounds like a growl.

I put a restraining hand on his chest, pressing the iron solidly against him. I slide a length of red ribbon from my pocket and tie it around one of his ears. I now have Tempest under some semblance of control but I know that if my dad does anything sudden I won't be able to hold Tempest back.

"Just get out of the pasture, Dad," I plead quietly. "Please." My voice is not steady.

To my surprise he slowly crawls between the fence rails and walks back across the yard. I stay with Tempest, rubbing circles on his nose and whispering to him. I hear the door to the house slam shut and I let the tears I've been hiding well up and fall across my cheeks.

After I calm Tempest and get him back in his stall, I clean up the scratches on his chest. There's not much I need to do because they've already stopped bleeding. When I'm done, I walk to the house with leaden footsteps. I know what I will have to face inside and it is the last thing I want to do right now. Dad is waiting for me at the kitchen table when I step through the door. At first I walk past him with no intention of speaking to him, but he calls my name, "Bay Fisher." He says it quietly, with absolutely no emotion. I know I'm in trouble.

"Yes, sir?" I ask as if I don't know the reason he wants to talk to me.

That's when he explodes. "Where the devil did that thing come from!"

"That 'thing' is my horse and I caught him." I feel a flush of anger rise to my cheeks.

"You caught him? Without my knowing? Without asking me first?" he demands.

"You weren't around. How can I ask your permission when I don't know where you are?" I return defensively.

"You know perfectly well what I would have told you. What I am telling you now." He doesn't mention why he has been gone, which means he hasn't been up to any good.

I know he wants me to get rid of Tempest. "That's precisely the reason I didn't ask your permission in the first place!" I snap.

"So you're just going to ignore me?" he growls.

"This time, yes," I say.

We're quiet for a long time. I can see Dad's jaw working like he wants to say something, but can't decide what. At the moment I think he's too upset to get his words out. Since he is quiet, I decide to drop one more bomb on this already explosive situation. I've got to tell him sometime and it might as well be now, when I'm mad enough to be reckless already.

"I'm riding in the races," I speak all in one breath, running the words over themselves in the process. But I know Dad understands me, I can see it in his face.

Dad looks stunned and then angry. "What?" He suddenly stands up, knocking over his chair.

"I'm riding in the races," I repeat. This time my voice is stronger, steadier and I remember how I felt as Peg Gratton wrote Tempest's name on the chalkboard down at the butcher's.

"You are not." Dad's brow is drawn together with disapproval.

"I've already put my name on the board, Dad. And paid the entry fee."

"You used my money to deliberately disobey me?" he thunders.

"No!" I answer indignantly. "It was my money. I saved it for just that purpose."

"You've been planning this?"

"Yes."

Dad picks up his chair again and sinks into it with an angry sigh, but there is a trace of sorrow hiding in his eyes too. "What would your mother think?" he finally asks. It's what he always says when I've done something he doesn't like and he tries to make me feel bad for it. This time, I've heard it enough.

"I never knew my mother!" I shout. As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back. That's the second time tonight that I've said something I haven't meant. Dad looks pained and suddenly old as he sits at the table in a faded, wrinkled t-shirt and jeans. Under the single light over the table, I can see the gray in his hair and the stubble that covers his jaw. I feel like I've been the cause of more than my fair share of that gray.

"I did." Dad whispers into the silence.

I don't know what to say or do, so I turn and run from the room, tears welling in my eyes again. This is usually when I would sneak out and run to Sean's house, but I've already cut off that escape. Instead I lock myself in my room and bury my head in my pillow. When Dad knocks on my door I don't answer. He stands in the hall outside my room for a minute or two then I hear his footsteps walk away and the door to his room shut decisively. Nothing is going well tonight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

**Bay**

The situation in the house the next morning is very delicate. I feel like we're balanced on a knife edge and that any movement whatsoever will send us over the brink. The very air feels brittle, like one word will shatter it forever. I feel like I should say something to try and piece back the situation, but I have no idea where to start. It's like a puzzle where every piece is the same color and there's no solid definition of the outside line. I didn't sleep much last night and I don't think Dad did either. When I come into the kitchen, he is in the process of making coffee. I can't stand the stuff, but Dad drinks it religiously. This morning it is strong; I could smell it in my room before I got out of bed. I start opening cabinets and drawers, pretending to look for something to eat but I'm really just giving my hands something to do. Eventually, I pull a box of cereal from the pantry and half a jug of milk from the refrigerator. I find a clean spoon and bowl among the dirty dishes that clutter the counter and bring it all to the table. Dad is sitting down, sipping his coffee. He's already on his second cup. In silence I pour cereal into my bowl and splash it with milk. I stare into the bowl like it might give me answers.

"So, are you going to work today?" I eventually ask. I know it is a stupid question, but I can't think of anything else to say.

"Yes." Dad answers in an annoyed tone, giving me a glance that clearly says he doesn't need me to poke into his personal affairs.

I stir my cereal with my spoon and take a half-hearted bite. I chew slowly even though I'm not really hungry. "I'm sorry," I mumble after I've swallowed. "For what I said last night." There's another pause. "But I'm still riding in the races," I clarify.

Dad stands up and puts his empty coffee cup in the sink. He grabs his jacket from the back of his chair and puts it on before responding sternly, "We'll talk more later, Bay." And with that, he walks out the door and jumps in his rusty old truck. I hear the engine turn over a couple times before it starts and then I hear the truck rattle out of the driveway. I get up and dump my cereal in the sink, setting the bowl and spoon back on the counter. There's no use keeping up the pretense when no one is around to watch me. I lean on the counter and look out the kitchen window, watching Dad's truck crawl down the road until it is out of sight. I wonder if he is really going to work like he told me. He is sober, so he probably is. It's ironic really that he is a fisherman. Or used to be anyway. He still works down at the docks, but he doesn't have his own boat anymore. He sold it years ago under the excuse that it made him think of Mom too much. I know now that he really needed the money. Now he just lends a hand to whoever needs it and does general maintenance on the other fishermen's boats. After Mom died, he took a great disliking, a fear even, of the sea and although he works around it, he is seldom on it. Unfortunately he's been very slack about working lately and sometimes he won't show up to work for days. And then when he does, he usually spends whatever he earns in town drinking. It's a good thing we own our house and his truck already, or they probably would've been taken from us years ago. As it is we manage, but just barely. This past year I began helping Sean out around the Malvern Yard and he splits his wages with me whenever I work with him. At first we were rather wary of Malvern and what he might think if he found out. Of course, he did find out but he doesn't seem to care. At least, he hasn't said anything yet. He certainly can't complain about help that doesn't cost him a thing and I am good with horses, better even than some of his grooms. At first I felt guilty for taking Sean's pay, but Sean wouldn't hear of not giving me something for what I did around the Yards. "After all," he argued, "it's not expected of you and you don't owe Malvern anything." So I set a price that my pride will let me take. Sometimes when money is really tight, he pays me in feed for Selkie instead. I have no idea how he reconciles that with Malvern, so I don't ask for that often, only when things are really bad. It was one of those times when I got my brilliant idea to try and rectify the situation—to ride in the Scorpio Races. If I win the races, I'll win the prize money, but, if I'm honest, that's not really the reason I'm racing. I'm really in it to get a name for myself and establish connections in town and stand on my own two feet and maybe find a cure for the downward spiral Dad has been in ever since Mom died. I put my plan into action last night, but, so far, it doesn't feel like it is going very smoothly. With a sigh I turn away from the window and, grabbing my sweatshirt, head outside as well.

I walk out to the barn and greet Selkie and Tempest. They're both quiet this morning, which is a good sign. I turn Selkie out to pasture for the day. With Tempest around, Selkie will get a break for a few weeks. I'll exercise him later, but right now I need to focus on my _capall uisce_. If I am to win the races, I need to spend all the time I can in these precious few weeks training with Tempest. I pull an old saddle and bridle from the tack room. They need some work later, but they'll do for now. Tacking up Tempest might be tricky because I've only ever put a halter on him before, although I've ridden him down on the beach several times. If I have to, I suppose I could ride the race bareback, I think as I step into Tempest's stall. I let him investigate the saddle for a while first before I throw it on his back. I make sure to use my best saddle blanket for him, the softest one that wrinkles the least so that it would be more comfortable. Tempest snorts curiously as I tighten the girth strap around his belly, but he doesn't protest. Then I slip the bridle over his nose and push the bit into his mouth. Somewhat to my surprise, he takes the bit easily, only jawing it a little. Then I lead him out of the stall to the pasture fence. Using the fence rails as a mounting block, I sling myself up into the saddle.

"Alright, Tempest, let's go show 'em what we're made of," I say, spurring him into an easy trot. He responds to me like he's worn a bit before and his willingness is unexpected, but greatly appreciated. When we get to the end of our drive, I turn him down the road toward the beach. At this time I know it will be full of other riders, all practicing for the races, but the rules specify that you have to train within a certain distance of the beach and on it is as good as anywhere else. Besides, it will give me a feel of how Tempest reacts to the other _capaill uisce_ and to the sea. The day is bright as I head toward the beach. Blue sky studded with thin white clouds hangs high over my head, promising a rain free day. The breeze is gentle, but cold. I wish my thoughts were as clear as the day. Half of the reason I'm heading to the beach is because I'm hoping to find Sean and make up with him for last night. I'm also still mincing words in my head that I might be able to say to my dad to try and smooth the rift between us. But when I get to the beach, most of that is driven from my mind.

As soon as I get Tempest down the trail from the cliffs, I'm bombarded with a cacophony of sounds and sights. The beach is a seething mass of riders and their _uisce_. Today everyone wants to show off their horses and their spirit so they've all gathered on the beach. I scan the sand for Sean, but at the moment, I don't catch a glimpse of him or Corr. That doesn't mean he is not here. What I do see surprises me though. Puck Connolly is down on the beach, out in the surf with her island pony. Why in the world she would bring that little horse here today of all days beats me. I don't think you could pay me enough to ride Selkie on the beach today. Puck obviously trusts her horse very much. Her horse is dwarfed by all the _capaill uisce_ around her. Even Tempest, who is smaller than most of the _uisce_ on the beach today, is a good two or three hands taller than Puck's horse. I trot Tempest down onto the beach, keeping a wary eye on the other riders. I know I can handle my horse, but half of these boys can't handle themselves, let alone their mounts. I keep an eye on Puck as well. I can't shake the feeling that she is asking for trouble. Her little horse is brave that's for sure, but her ears are laid back and her steps are jerky. She has a very healthy fear of the bigger water horses that I think her rider would do well to take notice of.

As I'm watching, a white _uisce_ stallion charges down the beach out of nowhere and heads straight for Puck. I don't know if this water horse has broken loose from someone, or if it is a stray that has wandered onto the beach amid all the confusion, but either way, its eyes are locked on Puck's horse. There's a general commotion as several other riders realize what is happening and Puck's horse lets out a shrill whinny of fear. I'm too far up the beach and there are too many riders and horses in my way for me to make it down to Puck in time, but I'm trying anyway. Suddenly someone yells Sean's name and after a second or two I see his dark head dodging between riders and running down the beach. By now the _capaill uisce_ has reached Puck and is terrorizing her pony. He rears and so does Puck's horse, one in hungry, wild anticipation, the other in absolute terror. Puck falls off into the water just as Sean splashes into the surf. By now I'm about half-way down the beach. It would be faster for me to get off of Tempest and run, but I don't dare leave him unattended in the middle of all the other _capaill._ Sean pulls himself up on the stallion's back as Puck flounders, trying to keep her head above the choppy surface and trying to stay out of the way of those deadly hooves. Her horse has run back several steps, but now she paces the water restlessly, calling to Puck in anxiety. She doesn't want to come any closer to Puck, but she also won't take another step onto the beach. She's still in the edge of the surf, which is probably the safest place on the beach for her. Sean is stretched across the stallion's neck, reaching toward his nose with a closed fist. Gripped between his fingers are deadly red holly berries. I can't see them from here, but I know that is what he is holding—it's the only way he can get the stallion away from Puck now. He's too excited and too wild to be calmed by anything Sean or anyone else can do. I see Sean's hand connect with the _capall uisce's _nose. The stallion throws his head around toward Sean and his forehead connects with Sean's violently. Sean reels back then overbalances and tumbles into the surf. The stallion calls faintly and then crashes into the water. But I don't care about the horse, I know it is dead. I jump off of Tempest and hand his reigns to the nearest person on the beach—I don't really know who it is—then dash down the sand. I burst from the crowds just in time to see Puck pull Sean up out of the water by his collar. He coughs and spits water, then stands up, quickly getting himself out of Puck's grasp. He says something to her, but I can't hear him over the water and the horses and the people. Sean turns away from Puck and storms up the beach. Puck looks like she's about to cry, but there's a brave, determined look to her face as she collects her pony and rides off the beach.

* * *

><p>"Keep your pony off this beach," Sean shakes his head in annoyance. "That's what I said to her." He wrings water out of his jacket and hangs it from Corr's saddle. I've collected Tempest again. As it turns out I handed him to Tommy Falk, so when I got back to get him, there was quite a crowd of admiring guys standing around my horse. Tempest even seemed to be showing off for them. I'm just glad Tommy handled me thrusting my <em>capall uisce<em> on him like that. It could have been potentially disastrous.

I've found Sean where he has three Malvern horses picketed in a small natural enclosure formed by the cliff walls and the rocks on the beach. One of the horses is Corr, and the other two are bay mares, one has white points, the other doesn't. Sean is gathering the horses up to take them back to the Malvern Yards. There is not much point in staying on the beach anymore. After this morning's excitement, the riders and horses won't be calm all day and Sean is too wet to stay out in this cold for long. I've offered to help Sean take the horses back to the Yards. It seems the groom that came down with him has been frightened off by this morning's events. I won't envy him when Malvern figures out. As he gathers the horses together, Sean keeps shaking his head like he is distracted. He's not satisfied with what he said to Puck Connolly and it's probably the first time that this has ever happened to him. Although Sean is quiet most of the time, when he does speak it is because he says exactly what he means. Which reminds me of what I need to say to him. I clear my throat as Sean hands me the lead of one of the bay mares.

"Sean," I begin. Somehow apologizing to my best friend is always one of the hardest things to do. I've only done it a few times in my life, but each time my mouth seems to mince the words I want to say. Sean looks at me expectantly when I don't continue. I take a deep breath as we start walking up the beach, staying well away from the other riders and horses.

"I'm sorry," I finally mumble. "You know, for what I said last night." This time, I really mean what I say.

To my complete and utter surprise, Sean says, "Don't be."

When I look back at him to confirm what he just said, it is like he never spoke at all. He's watching a tangle of _capaill uisce_ mares down the beach and absentmindedly scratching Corr's neck as he walks beside him. I'm not quite sure I heard him right, but I know he won't repeat himself, so I don't ask.

"What do you think Puck Connolly was doing on her horse this morning?" I ask instead.

"Riding," Sean says.

"No, I mean, really, what was she doing?"

Sean gives me a sideways glance. "Riding," he repeats himself as if I didn't hear him the first time.

To be impractical or annoying is not Sean's style so it bugs me that he's not answering me. "I know that, but what I want to know is why she had her horse—" I suddenly break off as realization dawns on me. "You mean she is riding her pony in the Scorpio Races?" I ask incredulously.

Sean nods but doesn't speak.

"She can't do that!" I splutter. "That's breaking two of the rules. She's a girl and she's not riding a _capaill uisce_? That's just not—" I stop talking. The look Sean is giving me reminds me that if I term it that way, I'm breaking rules too. And if I'm doing it, then I have no right to complain about Puck. By now we've reached the Skarmouth road and we walk the rest of the way in silence. Halfway back Sean is shivering so I offer him my sweatshirt. He just shakes his head. I roll my eyes. When we reach the Yard I help Sean untack the two mares so that he can get into dry clothes sooner. I know he won't do anything about himself before he takes care of the horses. After that, I bid Sean good-bye and take Tempest back out to the cliffs. I ride him up and down on top of the cliffs overshadowing the beach. Up here it is quiet and peaceful. I catch glimpses of the beach as I ride and it is still a mess of riders and _capaill uisce_. I can hear the occasional shouts and screams from below but I don't interfere. What I don't see is Puck Connolly or her little bay.


	5. Chapter 5

**This is the first chapter that is written from the perspective of a character other than Bay...most of this story will be from Bay's point of view, but there are a few scenes that either a) I imagined them from someone else's perspective/wanted to describe Bay, or b) Bay isn't there and obviously can't describe the scene. So I've tried to keep in character as best I can for these scenes! Please review and let me know how I do in this respect! **

**And just in case you need a refresher, the horse Malvern referrs to in this chapter is Fundamental, a foal that Sean lost while training, because he was distracted and thinking of Puck. When I first wrote this chapter, I had no reference to Fundamental, but my sister and Dad were both confused by it, so I did end up mentioning the foal's name.**  
><strong>The height I used for Bay has two meanings—it's a little unusualunique and it's also how tall I am. ;)**

**Chapter Five**

**Sean**

Malvern told me to meet him in the tea house. I'm here a little early, but Malvern is nowhere in sight. It's just another way he likes to remind everyone of his power and authority. I've heard on the mainland that making a late entrance is fashionable, but I consider it downright rude. Maybe that is because I associate it with Malvern and nothing he does lays easy on me. I'm glad it is early and there are no other customers in the tea house yet. I feel out of place in the quaint little room. The small, round tables are covered in neatly pressed white tablecloths, the chairs are dark, polished wood with flowered cushions on the seats. Against the flowers and the bright sunlight filtering through the windows I feel like death. Compared to them, I'm the darkest thing in the room. My boots are covered in island earth, my jacket is stained with countless days on the beach—salt and dirt and blood. Evelyn Carrick offers to take it from me when she comes upstairs, but I keep it on. Something about it makes me fractionally more comfortable in this over cheerful room. As I wait for Malvern I let my thoughts wander over last week. Something inside me still can't believe that Bay Fisher, fun-loving, companionable Bay Fisher, the girl that I've practically grown up with, is riding in the Scorpio Races. I think back to the morning she caught Tempest. Just me and Bay down on the beach with the early morning chill. There is something different about her _capall_. He is friendlier than any other I've ever handled and less drawn by the sea. I think he's got island horse blood in him somewhere. He seems to share a unique bond with Bay. I wonder how many mornings she spent, in secret, risking herself to forge that bond. I frown. I can't quite figure Bay's reasons for riding in the races, for putting herself in danger like this. I can't shake the feeling that they have something to do with me, but what, I can't for the life of me imagine.

Just then Malvern walks up the stairs into the room.

"You look serious, Mr. Kendrick," he says. "Something on your mind?" he asks.

I shake my head. It's nothing I want to tell Malvern.

Malvern laughs but eyes me curiously. "Have a seat." He gestures to a chair. I wait for him to sit first then I sink into the offered chair.

Evelyn comes back up the stairs and asks Malvern what he wants. From the speed at which she got here I can almost guarantee that she followed Malvern up the steps and waited for a few seconds out of sight before serving him. He orders tea—for himself and me, but it is no gesture of kindness.

"About my horse, Mr. Kendrick," Malvern begins.

I let out the breath I've been unconsciously holding, but I don't speak. I'd been waiting on Malvern to bring up Fundamental. I know there isn't anything I can say at this point. Malvern will either believe me or he won't but his mind is already made up, I can see it in his eyes.

"Nothing to say in your defense?" Malvern asks as Evelyn returns with our tea. Malvern stirs his slowly, all the while keeping his eyes on my face.

"I was distracted," I admit.

Malvern nods like I've just confirmed what he already knew. "Matthew told me. Though I must say, Daly painted you in a slightly more favorable light."

I don't answer. Malvern sips his tea.

"I admire a man that is honest, Mr. Kendrick. But don't let it happen again."

"Yes, sir." I know that is the end of the conversation.

"On to the matter of the races," Malvern says with mock cheerfulness. "Tell me about my horses. Which is the slowest?"

"The bay. The one with no white," I answer. No white and no name either.

"The fastest?" he asks, finishing his tea.

"Corr." That has never changed from year to year, but Malvern still asks me anyway.

"And the safest?" He steeples his fingers in front of him.

"The bay with white. Edana."

Malvern's next question catches me off-guard and he knows it. "What about that gray of Bay Fisher's?" He asks the question in a tone of casual interest, but I know there is a deeper motive behind it. For the first time I'm silent not because I choose to be, but because I find myself at a sudden, unexpected lack of any response. I swallow.

"He's strong. And fast. But not faster than Corr," I stammer out. My voice sounds steady, but that's not what I feel like inside. It's the first time I've ever felt unsettled like this and I really don't know how to handle it. I open my mouth to say something else then close it with a shrug.

"Yes, Mr. Kendrick?" Malvern prompts.

I shake my head and remain silent. I have nothing else to say. I don't dare say that Tempest is safe—the safest _capaill uisce_ I've ever been around—for fear of how Malvern will react.

Malvern stands. "Put Matthew on Edana," he instructs as he turns and strides from the room. I feel empty somehow, like I've told a secret I shouldn't have. I know where Malvern is going next and I've got to try and get there before him.

**Bay**

I'm in the yard, walking from the stable to the house, when Malvern rides up. I notice him as he comes level with the farthest post in the pasture fence. I know who it is as soon as I see him. I don't know what he's here for, but I have a sinking feeling that it can't be good. Malvern usually only shows up in person when he wants something from you. As he gets closer I wipe the disgusted look off my face and plaster what I hope is a good imitation of a friendly smile on my features. Malvern pulls his horse into a stop in a superb show of horsemanship and dismounts. But he doesn't swing off his horse with the casual grace that I associate with Sean; Malvern slides off like an oil slick spreading across pavement, iridescent on the surface but dark, sticky, and foul underneath.

"Fisher," he greets me as he walks up to me. "Bay, isn't it?" he smiles, holding out his hand.

"Yes, sir," I answer, stalling for time. I know better than to shake hands with Malvern. It's like sealing the deal before you know the terms or agreeing to a contract entirely against your favor. I realize that I've paused just long enough to evoke Malvern's suspicion.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Malvern," I say, trying very hard to hold my voice steady. "But I don't want to get your hands dirty. I've been cleaning stalls," I explain apologetically. I set down the bucket I'm carrying and hold my hands out, fingers splayed for his inspection. I've told him only half of the truth. I was cleaning stalls, but I'd been cleaning a bridle and saddle for Tempest for the past hour and my hands are covered in polish and oil.

Malvern frowns, but he doesn't quite take his hand away. I make a show of trying to wipe my hands clean on my pants, but Malvern clears his throat and pulls his hand back. "Don't go to the trouble," he says, irritation lurking in his voice. Inside, I'm grinning ecstatically, but I keep a humble expression outside and simply nod. This is going better than I thought. I've already made Malvern uncomfortable and underscored his authority.

For a long while we stand, facing each other in silence. Malvern stares me down and I let my gaze wander over the yard, across his expensive boots and the neatly pressed cuffs in his shirt sleeves. Everything about Malvern speaks money and power. Against him, I look like nothing in my old jeans and my dirty sweatshirt with the torn pocket. Strands of hair have escaped my braid and blow around my face in a halo of tangles. Finally he speaks.

"Nice _uisce _you have out there." He is looking out into the pasture, where Tempest is trotting across the far end of the enclosure. I swallow hard. If Malvern's attentions are on my _capaill uisce_, it is not a good sign.

"Yes, sir," I answer softly.

"Where'd you get a powerful animal like that?" he asks, strolling over to the fence and leaning against it.

I don't move from where I stand and I keep my voice low, but I know Malvern hears me. "I caught him. Last week," I answer stiffly.

"Caught him from his rightful owner?" Malvern asks. I don't know where he's leading this, but the implication that I would steal a horse this valuable raises my hackles.

"If by his 'rightful owner' you mean the sea, then yes," I say.

"The sea no more owns this animal than you do, Bay Fisher," Malvern snarls, turning back to face me again.

"Tempest owns himself, if that's what you mean," I answer. I'm still skirting around Malvern's true intentions and he knows it.

"Named him have we?" he raises an eyebrow.

"Is there any reason I shouldn't?" I counter.

"Because he already has a name. Mine."

My heart sinks into my boots and I swallow hard. "Mr. Malvern." When I speak my voice is like ice. "That horse doesn't belong to you and we both know it."

"Do we?" he sneers. "Because it seems to me that you've taken one of my prize _uisce_ stallions."

"I caught Tempest from the sea," I repeat. "Ask Sean Kendrick. He'll tell you. He was there."

Malvern laughs at the mention of Sean's name. "Will he?" Malvern shakes his head like I'm a small child who can't understand. "Sean Kendrick is wrapped so tightly around my finger," Malvern holds up his hand and waves his fingers in my face, "that he can't move an inch unless I give it to him."

I stare back at Malvern defiantly. "You can't prove it," I whisper. "The _capaill uisce_ carry no brand, no mark of ownership. By law that means they belongs to whoever holds their reigns." Or whoever catches them first.

"And I see your grip on the reigns slipping very quickly, young lady."

I draw myself up to my full height—all five foot three and a half inches of me—but I still only come up to Malvern's shoulder. "Not while I'm still alive," I answer.

That stops Malvern short. I can see it in his face. He didn't expect me to fight this hard to keep my horse. No one ever argues with Benjamin Malvern. But no one has ever needed to keep something from him as much as I do.

"Very well," Malvern draws a deep breath through his nose, his lips pressed into a wicked, hard line. "This isn't finished, Fisher." He strides away to his horse and mounts in one motion. Kicking his heels into the animal, he spurs it into a gallop and wheels around, streaking back the way he came. I wait until he is out of sight before I collapse against the fence beside me. Malvern wants my _capall uisce._ Malvern wants my freedom. My chance. My mind can't take it in.

* * *

><p>I'm sitting on the fence watching Tempest when I hear footsteps behind me. I don't turn around. I don't need to. Sean walks up beside me and leans on the fence. He clears his throat.<p>

"I'm sorry," he says.

I look down at him in surprise. "Sorry?" I ask. "For what?"

"I saw Malvern leave. I know what he came for. I tried to get here to warn you, but I didn't have a horse with me and it would've taken me longer to go back and get one."

For the first time, I notice that Sean is breathing heavily and his hair is dark with sweat. He must have run all the way here to try and beat Malvern.

"It's alright," I say, looking back out to the pasture.

Unexpectedly, Sean steps closer and I wouldn't exactly say that he's leaning against me, but his shoulder rests against my arm. I can feel the heat from his body even through my sweatshirt. We're quiet for ages, watching Tempest. At least, I'm watching Tempest; Sean's head is down as he regains his breath. I feel like he wants to say something, but I don't push him.

"What did he say?" he finally asks.

"That I stole his horse," I hiss.

Sean stands up straight and looks me in the eye. "What?"

"Malvern claims I stole one of his _uisce_ stallions."

"He can't prove it."

"That's what I said."

"He's never even owned a _uisce_ that color," Sean murmurs.

"I told Malvern that Tempest carried no brand, so he belonged to me. That's about when he got mad and rode away."

"You'll have to keep an eye on Tempest. Malvern will try anything he can to take that horse."

"I know." I shiver. "But he really has no bargaining tool he can use on me," I continue. Malvern doesn't own my house or the property it is on. My dad inherited it all from his dad and so on back until no one can remember and only Thisby is witness. I don't work for Malvern, not officially anyway, so he can't fire me, and my dad hates Malvern even more than I do because he associates Malvern with the water horses, so he can't try to negotiate there. About the only thing he can do at the moment is try to take me out of the races. But he won't attempt that, will he? I ask Sean as much. He's silent for a long while before he replies. But it is not the answer I expect.

"Why do you want to ride in the races, Bay?"

I look down at Sean with my mouth open for a second. Then I close it. "I just—" I start, but stop just as quickly. How do I tell Sean my reasons for riding in the races? What are my reasons? At first I would say money, but I know they are deeper than that, much deeper. In fact, money is not the primary reason, but it will help. "I want—" I stop again, feeling flustered. How do I explain that I want to find myself in these races? "I just am," I finally mutter and it sounds defensive and petulant, even to me.

Sean raises an eyebrow but remains silent. I know he knows I didn't tell him the truth, but he doesn't call my lie. "Just, be careful, okay?" he says, so quietly I barely hear it. Then he turns and walks away. I want to call him back, but I don't. And then he's out of sight and I'm left alone with Tempest and my jumbled thoughts and feelings.

**What do you think? Review and let me know!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

**Puck**

Today I walk out and saddle Dove with a lump in my stomach. I can't tell if it is fear or nervousness or maybe the tiniest bit of excitement. Sean Kendrick has offered me a _capall uisce_ if I want it and he told me to meet him out on the cliffs this morning to look the water horse over. Finn has been begging me not to go. Ever since that horrible morning with the piebald mare, he doesn't want me near the_ capaill uisce_. But I promised him I would come home to him all in one piece. And I will.

Dove is frisky this morning as I ride her out to the cliffs. The breeze is brisk and cold, but not freezing, and the sun is shining. For Thisby, this is a pretty nice day. When I get to the cliffs, I don't see Sean or his stallion anywhere. I start down the trail to the beach, thinking maybe he's down on the sand, but when I reach the bottom, I don't see anyone. This isn't the main beach where the other riders are training and it is empty this morning. I turn Dove back up the trail and head for the top. When I crest the cliffs, I scan the area for Sean again. I still don't see any sign of him. But I do see Bay Fisher astride a long-legged, gray _capall uisce_. A second, slimmer bay mare is picketed beside her. I know Bay is pretty friendly with Sean and often helps him out at the Malvern Yards and generally accompanies him around Thisby. Did Sean back down and send Bay to meet me instead? For reasons I can't explain, I feel let down.

Bay hasn't noticed me yet. She's leaning forward in her saddle with her forearms resting on the pommel, looking out to sea and watching the sea birds wheel and call over the beach. It is low tide right now and they're searching the tide pools for whatever tasty tidbits remain after the sea retreats. As I ride closer I notice a saddle, some bits of tack, and a jacket piled on the ground a little ways away. The jacket is Sean Kendrick's, there's no mistaking that. Even though I've only seen him a few times, I've yet to see him without that dirt and blood-stained coat. Some little part of me jumps in excitement that he's around after all. The rest of me frowns and urges Dove towards Bay. Why should I care whether Sean is here or not? At least he kept his word and sent the horse out for me to investigate.

Bay doesn't turn her head until I'm almost right in front of her and when she looks at me it is with surprise, like she didn't really expect me to turn up.

"Puck Connolly," she says by way of greeting. It's not said in a friendly tone, but it's not antagonistic either.

Suddenly I get a discouraging thought. "Are you here to tell me I shouldn't ride in the races too?" I ask suspiciously, a sour tone creeping into my voice. I can't help it. Everyone, even Peg Gratton and Dory Maud, has been telling me to pull out while I can and get out of the races.

Bay pulls a face and shakes her head. "No. Are you here to tell me I can't?" she counters.

It's not the answer I expected and her abruptness catches me off guard. I'd nearly forgotten that Bay was racing too. "No," I say honestly.

"Good," Bay smiles, then explains, "Sean thought you weren't coming, so he took Corr for a run. He should be back shortly."

I feel slightly offended that Sean has given up on me so quickly. But then again, if I were him, I would have given up on me too. In fact, I don't even think I would have even given me a chance. So if Sean has taken Corr for a run, I really can't blame him.

"Is that your _capall_?" I start a conversation for something to do while we wait. Even though I've seen Bay around town and have known of her for several years, we've never properly met and we're far from friends, though we're friendly enough toward each other.

Bay grins. "This is Tempest," she says proudly, patting the stallion on the neck. Now that she mentions it, that sounds like the name I remember seeing written in chalk by hers in the butcher shop.

"Is he a Malvern horse?" I ask, knowing that Corr, much as Sean rides him, really belongs to Benjamin Malvern and that since Bay has connections with Sean then maybe that is where she got her _capall uisce_ too.

Bay bristles and narrows her eyes. "Tempest is my horse. I caught him myself. He never has belonged to Malvern and he never will," she says vehemently. I didn't mean to touch such a raw nerve with her and now I don't know what to say. Thankfully, we both hear hoof beats at that moment, and look across the cliffs to see Sean galloping toward us, crouched low over Corr's neck. He rides the horse as if he is a part of him and I remember the warning that the old man told me in the butcher's shop. But even so I can't stop staring. Bay notices my gaze and gives me a funny expression. I can't quite figure it. Jealousy, maybe? Sean draws Corr into a sudden stop in front of us. He's breathing hard as if he is the one who's been running this whole time and there is a fire-bright light of exhilaration and _hunger_ in his eyes.

"Kate Connolly," he greets me like Bay. Unlike Bay, he uses my real name and not the nickname that I am commonly known around town by. I am not surprised though; it fits his strangely stiff, formal manner. Even so, I don't invite him to call me Puck. Not yet.

"I thought you weren't going to show," he says in his quiet, smooth voice. It's like the sea when he talks—deceptively calm on the surface but wild and hard underneath.

His blatant statement draws me up short.

"Do you want the horse or not?" he asks when I remain silent.

"I-I'll look at it," I stutter. My heart is suddenly fluttering in my throat like a captive butterfly against glass. I clench my hands on Dove's reigns to make them steady.

Sean swings off of Corr and lands solidly. He glances at Bay and she nods, nudging Tempest closer to Corr until she can reach out and rub the red stallion's neck. It makes me realize that even though Sean is so familiar with Corr, he still doesn't entirely trust him. It makes me wonder if my decision to check out this _capall uisce_ is a good one.

I slide somewhat clumsily off of Dove and drop her reigns. I know she won't move unless she's spooked, but I'm counting on Sean to see that she isn't. Sean grabs the bay mare's bridle and pulls her over to a nearby rock. I notice that he keeps his palm solidly pressed to her cheek and I can see the edge of an iron bar beneath his hand. The mare tosses her head and whinnies sharply. At least, that's what she would've done if she had been any normal horse. Instead, her call sounds closer to a scream. Her eyes are wide and her ears are tilted back. She prances in place as Sean holds her. Suddenly I realize that both he and Bay are watching me, waiting on me to mount the animal. All of a sudden, I'm reminded vividly of the piebald. I take one more glance at the bay's teeth—sharp and canine in appearance—and know that I would never want to ride her. Especially if I want to keep my promise to Finn.

Instead, I'm taken with an idea. A crazy idea, but one that will prove to me once and for all that I've made a good decision in Dove, or that I am way over my head and far out of my league. "Let's race," I say without any introduction. Still, Sean grasps my meaning and raises his eyebrows skeptically.

"You know the _capail_ are much faster than your pony," he replies.

"Horse," I correct him out of habit.

"Taller and stronger too," Sean adds as if I never spoke a word.

"Just humor me then. You on that mare and me on Dove," I explain. "To the far end of the cliff."

Sean gives Bay a look like he knows something I don't but then he nods at me and mounts the bay mare. She dances agitatedly beneath him and he whispers to her. She calms fractionally, but her ears remain laid back and her nostrils are flared, taking in the stiff sea breeze that blows across the cliffs. I remount Dove and turn her toward the outer edge of the cliff. Sean brings the mare up beside me. "The _capaill uisce_ run on blood, Kate Connolly," he says. "You'd do well to remember that."

I'm not sure what Sean means by that. Is it to scare me? Or is it a warning? The expression on his face is one of cold concentration but that same light of excitement still dances in his eyes. Only now it looks foreboding.

Bay rides up beside us, Corr pacing beside her gray. She points out a rock several hundred feet away. "To the rock and back," she says. Sean and I nod in agreement. Sean because I've never heard him say more than a sentence at a time, and me because my mouth is dry with nervousness. Bay counts us off and we take off. Dove starts out even with the mare, but it's quickly apparent that the _capall uisce_ is outpacing her by a long shot. By the time I'm halfway to the rock, Sean is three-quarters of the way there and eating ground fast. I know Dove is giving me her best, but it is nowhere equal to the bay and I think Sean could coax more out of her if he tried. I'm starting to despair of ever having a chance in the Scorpio Races and I'm wondering if I shouldn't just go back to the butcher's shop and erase my name from the board.

But then something entirely unexpected happens. I'm urging all the speed I can out of Dove when Sean's mare suddenly veers toward the edge of the cliff and the sea that lies below. Sean pulls her back on course, but she fights him and continues toward the edge, screaming wildly. I can see the tension that has crept into Sean's earlier relaxed posture. He's getting closer to the cliff edge and if he doesn't win the fight soon, the mare will carry them both over. I have to admire Sean's courage. If it were me, I would've panicked and been either over the cliff or thrown off the horse long before now. He rides the mare within a few feet of the edge, when it is apparent that she won't turn back, before throwing himself from her back. He rolls a few times to absorb his fall then lurches to his feet. His left side is covered in grass and dirt now, but otherwise he looks none the worse for wear. I ride up to him and trot Dove around him in a circle.

"Faster, stronger, taller, and more foolish," I say to him.

He gives me a look that borders on what I hope is a smile. "If you can keep your pony running straight, you just might have a chance, Kate Connolly."

"Horse," I say as Bay rides up to us. "And call me Puck."


	7. Chapter 7

**This chapter was a lot of fun to write, and it's one of my favorites so far...enjoy! And thank you to all who've left such encouraging reviews. This is for you guys/gals!**

**Chapter Seven**

**Bay**

Tonight is the night of the Scorpio Festival. It's been a week since I've signed my name in the butcher's shop, but tonight is the night that I confirm my decisions forever. After the ceremony tonight, there is no turning back. I've been to the Scorpio Festival before, but never as a rider and I'm more than a little nervous. I comb my hair out and leave it loose tonight. I think it makes me look older, more serious. Dad, despite his warning otherwise, has not said a word about the races to me since the morning after he found Tempest. I don't know if that is a good or a bad thing, but I haven't brought up the subject either. We're both skirting around each other like we're walking on nails and the atmosphere in the house has been brittle since that morning. Because of that, I spent quite a lot of the past week out of the house getting Tempest fully accustomed to a saddle and bridle or working with Sean. Yesterday morning, he asked me to go with him to show a bay _capall uisce_ mare to Puck Connolly. I went with mixed emotions and no clear idea why he asked me to come with him. He said it was to handle the horses, but I almost think it was because he wanted a third party present. But maybe I just flatter myself. If there is anyone who can take care of himself and keep his cool in any situation, it is Sean Kendrick. I still can't believe Puck beat him on her little island horse. For Sean to lose control of a _capaill uisce_ is rare and I can only wonder if he was distracted. But that short race greatly boosted Puck's confidence and I have no doubt that I'll see her tonight at the rider's parade. Shaking my head, I pull on a sweater and my sweatshirt to ward off the night's chill and head outside. My Dad hasn't been home since he left for work this morning, but with the Festival, he's probably already at the hotel with a few of his buddies. If I see him tonight at all it will be a miracle.

The sun is setting in a brilliant display of reds and golds as I make my way to Skarmouth. When I reach the town, I stop for a minute to take in the sights and sounds before I plunge into the middle of the Festival. Tonight is the liveliest, darkest, and most magical night on all of Thisby. The town is transformed, lit by paper lanterns strung across building fronts and between street lamps. The stores are all brightly lit and, despite the cold, their doors are wide open, spilling excited hordes into the streets. The bakery is chock full and I can smell the aroma of freshly baked November cakes hot out of the oven and sticky with glaze. I know I'll have a cake or two before the night is over. There are several stalls set out in the streets advertising everything from knitted shawls, scarves, and hand-crafted models of _capaill uisce_; to spicy sausages and rice; to racing trinkets and betting odds. It's a tourist trap of the worst kind and it is crammed full of gullible tourists from the mainland. Despite all that I can't help but catch the fever of excitement that permeates the air. Groups of men and boys who are participating in the races are gathered on the streets bragging about their mounts and buying each other drinks. The hotel, which doubles as a bar, is crowded with gambling games and cigar smoke, while the crack of billiard balls and the cheers and groans of the players emanate from the seedy game room next door.

I wander aimlessly through the streets, letting the crowds sweep me along, trying to decide whether to head to the bonfires or to indulge in November cakes first when a dark shadow suddenly materializes at my elbow. It's Sean looking black and out of place, yet strangely at home, in the bright-lit streets. He smiles at me and there's something lurking in his smile that I can't place but that doesn't settle with me. Something unidentifiable and feral.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asks, pulling two November cakes from his jacket as if by magic.

"I am now," I say, pulling the paper wrapper from the sticky cake and stuffing a full bite in my mouth.

Sean leans against the back of a bench behind him, crossing his legs in front of him, and begins to eat his own cake. We stand together, watching the crowds mill around us as we eat. In the distance I hear the beat of the Scorpio Drummers as they wind their way through town, coming ever closer. The drums beat a ragged rhythm, matching the pounding heart of Thisby itself. I can feel the beat in my feet as the drummers get closer, rounding the corner of the street Sean and I are on. And behind them, following with her handfuls of sand, is the horse-goddess, Epona. Somewhere along the night, she will drop a single, delicate seashell along with her customary handful of pebbles, grit, and sand. Whoever finds the shell will be granted whatever they wish for. The tourists are all clamoring around her to try and catch the shell, while the islanders stand back and watch with patient smirks. They know that Epona won't drop her shell before she's ready and that only the person that she chooses will find it. Even so, we all entertain the fancy of getting the wish. Sean has gotten the shell before and I often wonder what he wished for and if he ever got it. I know what I will wish if I find the shell tonight.

The drummers draw even with us and then pass us, their beat drowning out the noises of the crowds. My ears ring and my breath catches with the stirring excitement that their rhythm induces. Just then, I catch a glimpse of Epona in her blood-stained tunic. Even though I know she's just a Thisby woman in costume, a woman I would recognize under that horse head mask and flowing tunic, she still unsettles me a little. Her dead obsidian eyes survey the crowds with a haughty, prideful air as she sways to the beat of the Scorpio Drummers. Sean's attention is locked on his November cake as the horse goddess draws closer. It's almost as if he is trying to avoid her. But instead of passing us as she has done to everyone else in along the streets so far, she stops right in front of Sean. Though she doesn't speak, something about her looms, weighty and stifling, over us. Sean looks up and meets her gaze.

"Did you get your wish, Sean Kendrick?" she asks.

"Yes, many times," he answers so quietly it is a wonder that the horse goddess can hear him through that heavy horse head.

"And you are happy." It is not a question.

"Of course," Sean answers, but his words sound strangely empty and hollow.

Epona nods sagely then cups Sean's face in her hands, smearing blood across his cheeks. She whispers something to him so low that even I can't hear it and I am standing right next to him. Then she releases Sean and turns away in a swirl of skirts. She takes her place behind the drummers once more. As she walks away she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a handful of sand, letting it trickle between her fingers onto the road beneath her.

Sean watches her go with a strange look on his face that I can't identify. He looks unbalanced, like the solid ground has been pulled from under his feet. And deep down, so hidden I can barely tell it is there, is fear. It is an expression I don't think I've ever seen on Sean Kendrick's face. Not even when his father died.

"So," I say quietly, "Does that mean you get the wish?"

Sean shrugs, half-turning towards me, but his focus is still on the receding form of the horse goddess. When he does finally look at me his gaze is miles away. He looks dark in the flickering glow of the festival, the blood glistening in crimson trails on his face. I shudder.

"You look—" I falter, at a loss for words to describe exactly how he looks.

"I know," he says, reaching up and running his thumbs across his cheeks, leaving pale streaks in the red blood. Unexpectedly, he reaches out and traces my cheekbones with his blood-stained fingers, leaving two dark stains of war paint on my face.

"Now you look it too," he murmurs, a strange tone of satisfaction in his voice.

I frown. I don't think I want to look like Sean Kendrick right now. I reach up to wipe the blood from my face, but Sean grabs my wrist and stops me. For a moment we stand still, oblivious to the crowds around us, focused on each other. I hold Sean's gaze for as long as I am able but it is so intense it is like trying to hold fire. I look away. He drops my wrist and laughs softly. There's something wild in the laugh. Wild but alive. So alive.

* * *

><p>Before the rider's parade and ceremony, Sean and I head to the butcher's shop. Sean needs to order meat for Malvern's <em>capaill uisce<em> and I need to do the same for Tempest. I finger the money in my pocket that I've brought for that purpose. When we get to the yard behind the shop, Beech Gratton is plying his trade of butchering and looking like he's ticked off at having to stay at work while the rest of Thisby is cavorting around at the Festival. He looks up as Sean and I approach and wipes his hands on the already bloody apron tied around his waist.

"You look like the devil," he says to Sean. Sean doesn't answer, but I think he takes the statement as a compliment. Then Beech notices me. "So do you." His voice has a tint of surprise in it as he turns to me. I feel my face redden beneath the blood. I know this is a look not expected of me and I don't wear it as naturally as Sean.

"How's the Festival?" Beech asks casually, but I know he's itching to get away from his work. I can tell by the careless slashes he's making with his knife. His dad won't be too thrilled with the cuts Beech is laying out. They aren't half as nice as they should be and won't fetch a fair price.

"As always," Sean replies. Beech takes that to mean infinitely more exciting than what he's doing right now.

"I'll be out there in ten minutes," he tells us as he makes a particularly jagged cut with his knife.

"Thirty!" Peg Gratton's voice cuts across the yard from the open back door of the butcher's shop. I could swear that Sean pales for a second and looks perfectly ghastly. Peg's voice sends a thrill up my spine because I had assumed that it was her in Epona's costume. Hearing her voice now has robbed the horse-goddess of familiarity and has cast her in an inhuman, foreign light once more. Coupled with whatever Epona whispered in Sean's ear earlier, I can only imagine how that makes Sean feel.

Beech groans and rolls his eyes. "Fifteen," he mutters under his breath as Sean and I make our way past him into the shop to place our orders.

After business is taken care of, we wander back outside and stroll the streets for a little while, working our way up toward the cliffs and the bonfires. I'm glad to reach one of the two towering bonfires burning and licking greedy tongues of flame at the sky. It provides welcome warmth from what is rapidly turning into a cold Thisby night. The stars above are nearly obliterated by the fire's massive glow. Sean and I receive stares from the gathered islanders and tourists as I'm sure that in the firelight, Beech's assessment of our faces looks particularly realistic. As Sean and I stand as close to the fire as possible, soaking up the warmth, we come across Thisby's most unpleasant resident and the last person I want to meet tonight—Mutt Malvern. I know he has seen us because he strides across the grass toward us with a definite purpose and a malicious sneer pasted on his face. I don't know which of us the sneer is directed toward, but I have a feeling it's more for Sean. This is the first time I've seen Mutt up close since the night I punched him and I'm pleased to note that his nose is not as straight as it once was. It gives his face an even crueler quirk. As Mutt walks, he pulls a scrap of paper from his pocket. Stopping just in front of us, he tilts the paper so that we can both see what is written on it.

"I've waited a long time for this, Kendrick," he hisses. Then he laughs and crumples the paper, throwing it into the wind, where it sails off the cliff and slowly falls into the sea below. Sean watches it dispassionately, but I feel anger rise in my chest like boiling water. Looking around me, I spy a box filled with scraps of paper and I walk over to it. Pulling a pencil and a bit of paper from the box, I hastily scribble a name on the wrinkled paper. Written forwards, these little scraps of paper are sea wishes, akin to Epona's shell, albeit less effective, they are supposed to grant the wishes of whoever tosses them into the sea. Written backwards, they are said to be curses of the worst kind, seized and executed by the sea, the cruelest of oath keepers. I stand up, admiring Mutt's name the way it was meant to be written—backwards. It looks like a curse all in itself. I crumple the paper into my fist and turn to throw it over the cliff, only to be stopped by none other than Sean. He effortlessly wrests the paper from my grip and unfolds it. I know he knows what's on the paper before he even reads it. A frown darkens his face as he looks back up at me. With the slightest shake of his head he turns and casually tosses the crumpled sheet into the fire. I don't know if that nulls the curse or makes it all the more effective, but I get the strange feeling that Sean was displeased with what I wrote on the paper. Of the object of my resentment, there is no longer any sign.

Just then, we hear the call of "Riders! Riders, this way! To the rock!" and we join the crowds that wind their way toward the riders' rock. As always, the riders' parade is a disorderly mass of people, all shoving their way towards the rock with anticipation. The riders are in a ragged line in front of everyone else, and this year, I take my place among them. I scan the crowds briefly for Puck, but see no sign of her. The crowd eventually reaches the rock, with stragglers constantly trickling in from the streets until I think that every person on Thisby must be packed around this rock tonight. The riders are still arranged, loosely, in a half-circle closest to the rock, broken by the more eager of the tourists in the crowd. Peg Gratton ascends the rock and takes her place as the Spirit of Thisby in a feathered robe and headdress. A gleaming knife is in her right hand, the knife that will spill rider blood and seal our oaths tonight.

"Riders, to me!" she calls and instantly there is a small crowd of men gathered at the base of the rock, willing, ready, and eager to spill their blood and bind their ties to their horses, to the race, to the island. The first up is Ian Privett. He walks coolly onto the rock and holds his hand out to Peg.

"I will ride," he announces in a strong clear voice. Peg draws her knife across his finger and a drop of crimson splashes the rock beneath them. "Ian Privett. Penda. By my blood." And then he's off the rock and the next rider is up. It's Mutt Malvern. He swaggers across the rock and holds out his hand as if he's already won the races. I scowl.

"I will ride," he declares loudly. "Matthew Malvern. Skata. By my blood," he affirms as the blade traces his fingertips.

Skata? I steal a glance at Sean. That's not the horse I heard him say Mutt would ride. Sean is stiff and there's a frown in his eyes, but he's not looking at me. His focus is on Mutt as Mutt turns off of the rock and meets Sean's gaze with a nasty smirk. I don't think Mutt's face is capable of smiling without cruelty.

Several more men and a few boys step up and declare their intentions to ride. Tommy Falk steps off the rock just as Sean moves forward to take his place. Sean steps up on the rock and the crowd immediately goes quiet, all holding a collective breath. Sean's lithe figure is sharply outlined against the lighter gray of the rock and the bright orange of the bonfire in the background. The fire suddenly flares, sending sparks dancing into the air around Peg and Sean, sending their shadows leaping dramatically and making the outline of their bodies indefinite. It makes Sean look transparent, like a spirit, and for a moment I feel like he will melt into the night. But then he speaks and his form is solid again, solid as the rock under his feet.

"Sean Kendrick. Corr. By my blood," he says in a voice like the sea before a storm, low and restless. The crowd breaks into wild cheers as Peg draws her knife and Sean's blood mixes with that of the riders before him. He turns back toward the crowds and his face is startlingly lit by the firelight. He doesn't smile, making his eyes the brightest thing in his darkly streaked face. I feel like his gaze could penetrate my soul. It isn't a look I enjoy seeing on Sean. He takes his place at my side again and gives me a little shove. "It's now or never," he whispers in my ear. His breath rolls over me like distant thunder, soft and far off, a harbinger of danger. This isn't a side of Sean that I have seen often, but it isn't one that I like. It's wild and reckless, like handling lightning.

I take a deep breath and a step forward, but, once again, Puck Connolly beats me to it. I stop and watch as she crosses the grassy slope in front of the rock. She reminds me of a leaf in autumn wind. If Sean were to whisper to her I think she'd blow away. As it is, Sean is watching her intently, a strange expression of interest on his face. Puck climbs the rock and stands in front of Peg.

"I will ride," she says in an unwavering voice. Something within me silently cheers her on, while some other part of me watches her skeptically. She holds out her hand and Peg lifts her knife, but before the blade touches Puck, a voice interrupts. "Wait!"

I scan the crowd to see who shouted just as Eaton and a couple of his buddies step forward looking stern and displeased. "She can't ride," Eaton declares solidly, leaving no room for argument.

"And why not?" I'm surprised to hear Puck's voice in answer to Eaton. I thought Peg would have been more likely to challenge the men. It's just another reminder of Puck's hidden courage. She may not look like she's got guts, but she stands up for herself when it really matters. And by the look on her face, I can see that this really matters to her right now.

"There's never been a woman in the Scorpio Races before, much less a girl," Eaton's lip draws up into a sneer on the word girl, "and I don't intend to start that now."

"There is no rule that says I can't race," Puck reminds him quietly. I wonder how many times she has said those words this week.

"There are rules to this race that go deeper than pen and ink, girl. Rules written in blood and kept by the sea," Eaton snarls.

"Then let the sea decide," a new voice suddenly breaks in. It's Sean's. I realize that he's no longer standing next to me but that he's stepped out from the crowd and now stands, arms crossed, challenging Eaton. "There are more important things on Thisby than blood," Sean continues. "And one of them is courage." When he says that he looks straight at Puck.

Eaton looks disgruntled but he can tell that the crowds have licked up Sean's words and are leaning in favor of Puck. "So be it then. Let the sea decide," Eaton backs down reluctantly. His statement is a challenge and a warning to Puck all in itself, but Puck turns back to Peg and holds out her hand regardless.

"Kate Connolly. Dove. By my blood."

The knife flashes briefly in the firelight and for the first time ever, a woman's blood mingles with that of countless men before her. There are only a few riders left to declare themselves now and I walk forward quickly. Like Sean said, it's now or never.

**Puck**

I step off of the rock to see Bay Fisher brush past Sean and head for the rock. The firelight gives a wild cast to her face, which I'm surprised to see is streaked with two dark stripes that look suspiciously like blood. The dark streaks on her cheeks match two pale lines in the chaos of Sean Kendrick's face. It's as if they are mirror images of each other, one dark where the other is light, and vice versa. Bay strides up to the rock with a clear purpose, her head held high. She thrusts her hand out to Peg like she's going to shake Peg's hand. I notice the iron steadiness with which she conducts herself and I envy how easy she's making it look.

"I will ride," she confirms in a strong voice, daring anyone to contradict her. Eaton looks dark as a thunderhead, but he doesn't argue. After all, he's already let one girl into the race and he would just be making a scene if he denied Bay. Besides, I'm sure that Sean Kendrick is willing to do more than just say a few words in her defense. Those two have been friends for as long as they've been alive.

When no challenge comes, Peg draws her blade across Bay's finger. Bay clenches her fist, letting the blood well between her fingers before opening her hand, palm down, over the rock and splashing several drops of her blood on the stained surface.

"Bay Fisher. Tempest. By my blood." Her last words are almost a shout and when she turns around, her face is a mask of fierce determination.

Tonight we have sworn our intentions. In two weeks we ride.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

**Bay**

The festival noise dies behind us as Sean and I walk away from Skarmouth. The Festival will continue on until nearly dawn, but it is past midnight and there is nothing to hold our interest anymore. The riders' ceremony is over and, having been to the Scorpio Festival nearly every year of my life, I know that from here on out, it's just drunks and gamblers who will stay in town for much longer. Sean walks with me down the road to my house. At the beginning of my driveway, we stop for a moment, both of us quiet, but neither of us moving. Sean's face is even more terrifying by moonlight than by firelight. I can see now why it's rumored that he has one foot on land and one foot in the sea. A stiff sea breeze whips across Thisby from the cliffs that lie beyond my house, blowing my hair around my face. I pull it back with one hand and tuck it into the collar of my sweatshirt. Sean is staring off into the distance where dark clouds are building on the horizon. Vague flashes of lightning burst on the clouds so far away that I might be imagining them. The collar of Sean's jacket blows up against his neck, his dark hair whips across his forehead and he closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. There's a smile on his lips, a thin smile, like he knows something that no one else on Thisby will ever know.

"A storm is coming," he whispers.

I shiver. Something in his words sounds prophetic, like he's talking about more than just the wind and rain. But I don't want to think about all the storms that could suddenly burst on my life, or even Sean's. I want it to stay like tonight. I feel fierce and determined and unstoppable and I don't want it to change. Sean and I are both frozen on the edge of trouble, as is most everyone on Thisby, especially this close to the races. The trick is to stop the storms before they reach us or to ride them out without taking a blow. Sean turns to me with that same strange smile on his face and, with a slight wave, he turns and walks down the road toward the Malvern Yard. I watch him go, a lone figure in the dark night. One foot on land, one foot in the sea, and his heart in the storm.

I walk into the yard to find that the kitchen light is on and Dad's truck is parked in front of the house. The engine is still ticking as it cools, so he obviously hasn't been home for very long. I'm surprised that he is home at all. On Festival nights I usually don't see him for at least a day afterwards. I'm about to walk up to the front door when I notice the horse. It's a dark animal, tied just off the front porch. I've been around the Malvern Yards often enough to recognize this as one of Malvern's personal mounts. It can only mean one thing—Malvern has come for Tempest. I feel suddenly short of breath. In all the excitement of the night, I had completely forgotten about Malvern. I realize now that there are two figures silhouetted against the bright rectangle of the kitchen window. The one that is obviously my dad is sitting at the table, sort of slumped over its surface, with a bottle in one hand. The other figure paces across the kitchen and occasionally waves his hands as if proving a point. I see him lean against the counter in front of the window, facing my dad, and I know I have to hear what they are saying. Crouching low, I slide close to the house and crawl along the wall until I am underneath the kitchen window. Reaching up, I feel along the sill until my fingers find the rag that is stuffed into one corner of the window, where the frame and the sill don't quite meet. For once I'm glad that the house is full of little idiosyncrasies that have never been repaired. I pull the rag out and slowly lift the window a few inches. At one point, it creaks alarmingly, sounding like a gunshot to my ears, but Malvern and my dad don't seem to notice. I let out a breath as their words filter through the window and wash over me.

I catch the tail end of a statement by my dad and then, "It'll keep your daughter out of the races and get you a little money besides. Benefits all of us," Malvern says. I notice that he doesn't say in what way it benefits him.

Dad answers in a low mumble that I can't understand. I can't tell if it's because he's drunk or because he's guilty. He was obviously not drunk enough to impair his driving skills too much, but he's drunk or desperate enough to talk to Malvern. Under usual circumstances, he would never be seen in the same room with Benjamin Malvern, much less conversing with him. Much to my surprise, Dad must have made some statement in my favor, because Malvern launches into a vivid description of the dangers of racing.

"The Scorpio Races are a deadly, bloody competition. A man's competition. The Races are no place for a bright young woman."

I frown at Malvern's false flattery. This wasn't the way he was talking to me earlier this week when he demanded Tempest from me. Malvern continues.

"I know you don't want Bay in the races, Callum. And I don't blame you. If I had a daughter I would keep her from the horror of the Scorpio Races."

I bristle at Malvern's familiar use of my dad's first name and his lies. If Malvern had a daughter she would rule Thisby as queen and ride in the races whenever she wanted. I tune into the conversation again just as Malvern pulls his most manipulative card.

"Surely you don't want to repeat Belle?"

I hold my breath, waiting to see how Dad responds to this mention of Mom's death.

"No," Dad answers slowly, immense sadness evident in his voice. I let out my breath. Dad must be in one of his melancholy moods tonight. In a way I'm glad, because that means Malvern won't see the violent side of my dad, but I'm also disappointed because it means that Dad will be more reasonable and actually listen to Malvern. "How much are you offering for the horse again?" he asks.

Malvern names a sum that would make anyone on Thisby kill for it. _Why so much?_ I wonder. I know _capail uisce_ go for much more than a common pony, but this is ridiculous. There is obviously something more important in Tempest than just a good set of racing legs and an even temperament. For Malvern to pay that much, there's more to it than just the fact that Tempest belongs to me. There must be significant long-term gain in it for him somewhere. I realize that there has been silence in the kitchen for a while. Finally my dad says, "I'll think about it."

"You've got a week, Fisher," Malvern responds quickly. Too quickly. His tone is friendly enough, but there's a warning implied beneath it. Pity, because it's probably lost on my dad. Not on me though. My mind is racing. I've got one week to convince Dad that I need to keep Tempest, need to ride, before Malvern ruins me. For a rider to back out of the races is humiliating enough, but to do it after swearing at the Festival is just as bad as one of the sea curses.

I hear footsteps cross the kitchen and the sound of the front door opening. Malvern walks out onto the porch, framed for a minute in the bright light spilling from the doorway. Then he closes the door and is thrown into shadow—where he belongs. I don't have time to move, so I shrink back against the house and hope Malvern doesn't see me. If he knew I was eavesdropping, it would only be bad for me. I have a sneaking suspicion that the reason he talked to my dad tonight was precisely because I wasn't there. Thankfully for me, Malvern is still semi-blinded from the contrast between the brightly lit kitchen and the inky black of the cloudy night. He's also confident and completely in control of the situation at present. He mounts his horse and, with hardly a glance behind him, rides out of the yard.

As soon as he is gone I detach myself from the wall. Hastily shoving the rag back into the window, I stand for a moment, unsure of what to do next. I know that there will be no consolation from my dad. Not tonight. I can't let him know that I was eavesdropping either. Even if he isn't angry now, if he continues to deal with Malvern, he might let slip sometime in the future that I overheard them tonight. If I walk into the house, Dad will more than likely not even notice that I'm there. Tears of frustration and helplessness spill over my cheeks despite my efforts to keep them at bay. But I know now where I'm going. I turn and run, across the pasture and through the fields of Thisby.

* * *

><p>Sean answers his door almost as soon as I pound on it, as if he were expecting me. Despite the late hour, he's awake and completely alert. There's something on his mind—I can see it in his eyes—and I don't think he'll relax. I'm glad to see that there is no trace of the blood that Epona smeared on him earlier. His eyes widen as he takes me in and I realize that my face must be a wreck, my tears having streaked the blood that he painted on my cheeks. He doesn't ask what's wrong, just ushers me in, like he has done so many times before. I brush past him and promptly collapse on the loveseat. Sean walks into the bathroom and returns shortly with a damp washcloth, which he hands to me. I rub my face clean with it and hand it back to him. He tosses it into a pile of obviously dirty clothes and towels and turns back to me, sitting beside me. Something about the feel of his arm against mine is solid, comforting. He's lost the wild quality that was hovering over him at the festival and he's just plain Sean again. The quiet, serious Sean Kendrick that I know best.<p>

"Malvern came for Tempest tonight," I tell him.

Sean isn't surprised by my declaration. "Did he take him?"

"No, not yet. Malvern's going through my dad and he's using my mom to do it."

Sean waits in silence for an explanation.

"Dad doesn't want me in the races," I begin. "I don't know how Malvern found that out, but he knows. He must've met Dad at the Scorpio Festival tonight, when Dad was drunk, and when I came home, they were talking in the kitchen. I didn't hear all of the conversation, but Malvern certainly presented his point well. He offered a huge sum of money and the promise that I'll be out of the races, if Dad will sell Tempest to him. His main point was that this would save me from my mom's fate."

"What did Malvern offer for your horse?" Sean asks. He knows how much effect that the mere mention of my mom has on my dad and he's curious as to exactly what else Malvern used as bait.

I tell him the price. He whistles in surprise. Sean is even more familiar with prices of _capail uisce_ than I am, and even he's impressed. "What did your dad say to that?"

"He said he'll think about it. I think the only reason he didn't accept tonight was because of sheer dislike for Malvern."

We're quiet for a minute then I ask Sean, "Why do you think Malvern offered so much for Tempest? What makes him so valuable?"

"I don't know," Sean admits after a moment. "I'd pay more for Tempest than an average _uisce_ myself, but not that, not even if I had that kind of money. Even Corr wouldn't sell for that much."

I'm shocked at Sean's frankness. If he believes that Corr wouldn't sell for that price then it really is an exorbitant sum. "What's in it for Malvern then?" I ask the question that's on both our minds.

"I don't know. I'll find out," he promises me with a reassuring smile.

I smile back, half-heartedly. "Can I stay tonight? I don't want to face Dad yet."

In answer, Sean gestures to his bed, which by the half-tucked in sheets I can tell he hasn't even sat on tonight. I flash him grateful smile and burrow under his blankets. Sean is used to my late-night escapes to his house. Ever since we were young, ever since Sean first moved into this little flat over Malvern's stable, I've used it as an escape from trouble. Somehow, life seems less complicated in the small, shabby space. Maybe it is because Sean has been more of a real influence in my life than my dad. Even my earlier memories are full of Sean and me playing together and helping each other through difficult times. I guess it's because we both lost a lot when we were young that we latched onto each other with such familiarity and strength. Sean lost both his parents by age ten, and I had, in effect, lost the same by the time I was twelve. As soon as I could take significant care of myself, Dad began spending long hours away from home which rapidly turned into whole days and nights. For somewhere to go when I was scared, I would often sneak away to Sean's apartment. It became my refuge from the outside world. I suddenly realize that Sean has turned out his light and has sprawled on the love-seat with a blanket while I was lost in thought. I curl under the blankets and close my eyes, but it takes several hours before I am calm enough for sleep to find me. Sean is still, but I know he isn't asleep. He's lying on his back with his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. I can only guess at what is on his mind, but I have the feeling that it has something to do with what Epona said to him tonight. He is still awake by the time I fall asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

**Bay**

I wake up the next morning to muted light filtering through Sean's window. The sky is covered with a thin, but consistent, layer of clouds. I glance at my watch. It's only about eight in the morning, still fairly early. The flat is completely empty; there is no sign of Sean. His boots and jacket are gone and the blanket he used last night is crumpled in the corner of the love-seat, resembling some semblance of folding. I get up and rummage through his cabinets for a bit of something to eat. Finding some bread, I make some toast and wander down into the stables as I eat. A quick walkthrough of the stables shows me Sean isn't here either, but Corr is, so Sean isn't far. I walk outside into the brisk wind and the smell of rain. The Malvern Yard is quiet; I doubt that either Mutt or Benjamin Malvern is awake yet—not this early on a Sunday morning. Most of the grooms have already started work and are out and about with the horses. I catch sight of Sean heading toward the gate leading out of the Yard. Walking beside him and talking amiably is a blonde man of about thirty. He's dressed in crisp khaki pants, a white sweater, and has a ridiculous red hat perched on his wavy blonde hair. He's certainly not from Thisby; he looks American. He must be a buyer who's come to see Malvern. Though I don't even know him, I frown at seeing him. I had been hoping to talk with Sean alone. Putting on a smile, I walk toward them just as the man unlatches the gate for Sean, who is carrying two buckets, one in each hand. The American looks back across the Yards and catches my eye as I walk up to them.

"Ah, is this your girl, Sean?" he asks jovially, as if recalling some earlier conversation. I blush, unsure of how to react to such a probing question. In the American's mouth it sounds casual, inquisitive, and…friendly. In anyone else's mouth I would've seriously questioned their motives.

"That's Bay," Sean says, also as if continuing a previous conversation. He seems hardly ruffled, like the American's question was expected, or at least explainable. But he doesn't offer to explain it to me as he introduces us, "Bay, this is Mr. George Holly. Mr. Holly, Bay Fisher."

Holly holds out his hand and I take it. He's got a strong grip and a pleasant smile. "Good morning, Ms. Fisher," he grins.

"Mr. Holly," I return his greeting. "I trust you find Thisby to your liking?" I ask out of politeness.

"Thisby, the Malvern horses, and the people," he replies. "Mr. Kendrick's introduced me to some of the finer points of all three." With a wry smile he continues, "You people certainly don't lead dull lives."

"That we don't," Sean agrees quietly as he steps through the gate. Holly follows him and holds open the gate for me then latches it behind us all. He and Sean start down the road toward the cliffs, but I turn back toward Skarmouth. There are things I want to do, but something in me also shies away from Holly and his open friendliness. Something about Holly seems invasive and I can tell that Sean is friendly with him. Just like he's getting friendly with Puck Connolly, a little voice in my head whispers. It puts a dark twist on my mood that surprises even me. Sean suddenly notices that I'm not with them. He turns back and catches my eye, eyebrow raised inquisitively.

"I'm headed home," I explain. "I want to take Tempest out to train with him." Then in a softer voice I add, "While he's still mine."

Sean nods understanding. "Good luck," he smiles.

Holly raises an eyebrow at the exchange but neither of us offers to explain. Sean turns away and starts walking.

"Pleasure meeting you!" Holly calls to me as he catches up to Sean.

I wave acknowledgment back to him, then set my mouth in a grim line and point my feet toward home.

**Sean**

Holly walks beside me in silence as we head toward the cliffs, a stiff breeze spitting in our faces. I duck my head to my chest as the wind slices across my body, bringing the scent of salt and rain with it. The storm-scent of the air brings me to the task at hand. The buckets I carry at my side are filled with Corr's manure and though the smell is rank and the task hardly pleasant, it is foresight on my part as the foreman of Malvern's Yard. Spreading Corr's manure on the cliffs will help repel any _capail uisce _that climb from the sea in this up-coming storm. Especially the stallions. When they encounter Corr's smell, I want them to think that they're entering another stallion's territory and that they'll have Corr to contend with if they venture too far. About halfway out to the cliffs Holly reaches out and takes a bucket from me. He grunts in surprise at the weight of it and I'm glad that he took it, but I don't let on. We reach the end of the Skarmouth road and I tip up the bucket in my hands, dropping some of its content on the grass. Then I pull salt and iron shavings from my pocket and spread them around too. Holly watches me in silence for a moment then he picks up our conversation from earlier this morning right where he left off, "If Bay Fisher is just a friend, then what's Puck Connolly?"

"A girl," I say as I begin walking again.

"Well, she's very obviously that," Holly laughs. "But what is she to you?"

"A jockey in the Scorpio Races who needs a little help."

"So, what makes you, the four-time champion of these races, want to help a no-account rookie like Connolly?" Holly wonders.

"Kate Connolly isn't no-account," I find myself answering defensively.

"Oh?" Holly prods me.

"She just needs a little help," I repeat, stopping once more to tip my bucket and scatter salt and iron.

"From you," Holly says and I look up at him sharply. Another meaning is hiding behind his open words and smile, but I can't quite pull it from him. He innocently turns and dumps the contents of his bucket farther along the grass at the cliff edge. Holly doesn't talk anymore as we finish up the job, probably because he can sense that I won't answer him. But as we start back up the Skarmouth road for the Malvern stables, he decides that I'm at least ready to listen again, if not reply.

"I can see what keeps you on this island, Sean Kendrick," he says. "But, I'm curious, what keeps you working for Benjamin Malvern?"

Corr is the first thing that comes to mind, but I don't answer right away. His question has touched a deep, quiet doubt that I've been harboring for some years now. What really keeps me with Malvern? It's not much of a future, and I really wish to be free of him and return to my old home and have a farm of my own. Deep inside, I think I know the answer to the question, but I don't want to admit it to anyone, least of all myself. Holly ventures a guess when I remain silent.

"It's the red stallion, isn't it?" he asks, a sly grin on his face.

"You could say that." I don't look at him when I answer.

"Why don't you buy him from Malvern?" Holly inquires.

I give him a sideways glance. "You think I haven't tried?" I mutter.

"Ah." Holly nods his head as if that makes everything clear. "He won't sell?"

I shake my head. "And it's not just me; he won't sell Corr to anyone, no matter the price."

"You have a price to offer him that's far above what anyone else can name."

I look at Holly, one eyebrow raised in question. I'm not penniless, but I'm far from rich and I have nothing to offer Malvern that he doesn't already have. Holly waits a moment before explaining himself, as if giving his words a chance to sink in.

"You can always quit," he says quietly.

I could. But, to be honest, some part of me is afraid of what that might mean. If I quit, it would mean letting go of everything I've held onto for the past nine years of my life. It would mean letting go of Corr if Malvern doesn't want to keep me more than the horse. It would also be an assessment of my exact worth in Malvern's eyes and though I despise the man more often than not, I'm not sure I want to face the results of that assessment.

By now we've reached the Malvern Yards again and Holly turns toward the house as we enter the gate.

"If the big man's not awake by now, he's going to make this buyer more than a little put-out," Holly says to me with a conspiratorial grin. "Malvern's going to get out of bed whether he likes it or not."

I smile as Holly walks off with a determined step. Just before I get to the stables, he calls my name. I turn back to him.

"Will you set your price, Mr. Kendrick?" he asks.

"I just might, Mr. Holly, I just might," I answer as I duck into the comforting semi-darkness of the stables.


	10. Chapter 10

**These two events (Puck taking notes on the riders and Sean quitting) happen backwards to the way they do in the book. He talks to Holly, then Puck, then quits. I started writing this scene and then realized it was out of order, but I really liked what I had, so I left it that way. After all, this is fanfiction…**

**Chapter Ten**

**Sean**

The wind blows across the cliff, sharp, biting, and cold, promising the storm that I sensed last night. I pull the collar of my jacket up to my chin and keep walking. Any other year, I would be down on the beach at this time, flying with Corr, and laughing at the other riders who thought they had a chance. But today I want nothing to do with the beach because it will only make me think of the blood-red stallion that should be mine. My mind wanders back to what I told Malvern just hours earlier._ I quit._ Those two little words have just nulled the past entire nine years of my life. Nine years of spending everything I had trying to grasp something that stayed tantalizingly out of my reach. Nine years of chasing what I thought would make me happy. And now it's all gone like water through my cupped hands. My life is slipping away like the sand on the beach when the tide rolls out and I am powerless to stop it. What shook me most was Malvern's casual indifference when he let me go. I mean less to him than the _capail uisce_ that stand in his stable. I can't describe how I feel, but it certainly isn't any of the emotions I expected. I don't feel powerful or free. I just feel small and alone and empty. I need something to hang onto before this sea drags me away. Something solid. Something like…Puck Connolly?

My thoughts are suddenly interrupted as I look up and catch a glimpse of Puck huddled on the edge of the cliffs, trying desperately to hang onto a wind-tossed sheet of paper. She holds a pencil in one hand and what looks like a stop-watch in the other. Despite myself, a half-hearted smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. George Holly may have told me more of the truth this morning than I want to admit to. As of yet, Puck hasn't noticed me, so I head towards her. With her red-gold hair blowing around her face, despite the ponytail she's tried to constrain it in, she looks like the very spirit of Thisby itself. And not like Peg Gratton in her fierce bird costume, but like Thisby in autumn colors—free and light and wild. I walk up behind her and crouch in the grass near her, just out of her direct line of sight. She looks up and the expression on her face is startled, like I'm the last person she expected to see.

I notice some numbers she has scrawled on her paper. "Those are wrong, you know," I say.

Puck looks down at the paper with a somewhat guilty expression and quickly covers it with her hand. It's not like she's hiding anything from me. It's too late for that. "Excuse me for trying, Mr. Kendrick," she says coldly.

That's not how I meant my words, and I realize how condescending they must have sounded. "The riders will push their mounts much faster the day of the race," I explain to Puck. "Whatever you record now will be a false estimate. Nothing more."

She shrugs, but I watch her thumb start the stopwatch again as her eyes follow Ian Privett and Penda across the sand. "Why aren't you down there?" she suddenly demands, looking back up at me.

"Too crowded," I mutter, my eyes roaming the beach for something to distract me. It's a lame excuse, even to her. Still, she doesn't push me for an answer even though I know she wants to. I steer the conversation onto a potentially less painful subject, "You'd do well to keep an eye on Penda. Ian Privett is a good rider, although he typically isn't aggressive."

Puck looks at me with a mixed expression. It is three parts confusion and one part intense interest.

I continue handing out advice. I don't know why I'm doing this. It's partly because I feel the need to _talk_, something that's completely foreign to me. I feel that if I'm silent then my emotions will get a hold of me. And, if I'm honest with myself, some part of me wants to give Puck Connolly a chance. "Tommy Falk's mare isn't a leader—she's motivated by the chase. She won't give you any trouble unless she goes for your horse." Puck smiles at me. She knows I called Dove a horse on purpose. I pause, and my eye catches the piebald.

Puck follows my gaze. She draws a sharp intake of breath, "I already know to stay well away from her," she says, shuddering at what I can tell is a vivid memory.

"And her rider," I murmur as I watch Mutt spur the piebald viciously. She prances closer to the sea and he whips her head back to shore, forcing her feet to follow. It's a dangerous dance he's in and you wouldn't get me in it for the world. Unexpectedly, I feel a hand against mine and something warm and sticky is pressed into my fingers. I tear my eyes from the piebald only to settle them on Puck's face. She's handed me a November cake from the festival last night. She holds a second cake in her own hand and there's already a generous bite taken out of it. She smiles as I take a bite out of my cake. We eat for a while in silence, wrapped up in our own thoughts.

"I hear your brother is going to the mainland," I say eventually. I don't know why, but I want to see Puck's reaction.

"Yes," she answers stiffly.

"And you're not?"

Puck looks at me for a long moment before replying, "No." She shifts her gaze to the horizon. "I could never leave Thisby," she finally adds, so quietly I nearly don't hear her.

"Why do you stay?" I ask.

"Do I need a reason?" she returns. "Why do you?"

"The sky and the sand and the sea and Corr," I answer automatically. I've been asked the question many times before. But this is the first time that I wonder if my answer is true.

Puck looks me in the eye as she says, "That's a pretty answer, Sean Kendrick, but it doesn't suit you." She doesn't know how true and devastating her words are at the moment.

Puck's statement shakes the solid foundation that I thought my feet were resting on. It's like standing in the sea and suddenly having the sand dragged from under your feet and the waves crash over your head. You know that the sea wants to drown you, but there's a rope to cling to if only you can find it. I grab the quickly unraveling threads that remain to me and stand up. "Thank you for the cake, Kate Connolly."

"Call me Puck," she insists, sounding slightly hurt. In my mind, she is Puck Connolly, but my mouth just isn't familiar with the name yet.

As I turn away, I catch one last glimpse of Puck's face. Her lips move as if she wants to say something and she looks like she's struggling to call the right words to mind. When she doesn't speak, I continue walking and soon I'm too far away for her to call me back.

**Bay**

As Sean predicted, a storm hits Thisby around early afternoon. I'm out on the cliffs with Tempest when the rain starts, but I don't take him in immediately. The race will go on in any weather short of a hurricane, so it's smart to see how Tempest reacts to stormy weather. Unlike a usual horse, the _capail uisce_ aren't scared of storms. Instead they're incensed by them and many of them go wild if not properly restrained. If Sean were out here, he'd be watching me with a tight-lipped frown and narrowed eyes as I ride Tempest closer to the cliffs. But he isn't out here and I trust Tempest. (And it's not like he wouldn't do the same with Corr.) I also want to prove to myself that I'm a good _uisce_ handler. After the conversation I overheard last night, my confidence needs a little boost.

The rain begins as misty shreds that wrap around my face and tangle in my hair. With a shiver, I pull my hood over my head and sit deeper in the saddle. Tempest throws his head into the wind, which has sharpened dramatically, and picks his feet up in a dance of excitement. For the moment, I give him his head. I'm too distracted to pay much attention anyway. I feel like my life is crumbling and that if I don't hold onto the way that it used to be, then it will all change and I will be forced to change along with it. There's already something different about Sean. I don't know what it is, but something inside me tells me it's Puck's fault. Honestly, I have nothing to hold against her, but I can't bring myself to like her either. Maybe it is because of her statement about Malvern the day that Sean showed her the_ uisce_ mare. Maybe it is because she beat me to declaring herself in the Races twice now. Maybe it is because she's riding in the races. Maybe it is because…

_Maybe it's just because you're jealous_, a sudden thought pops in my head.

Me, jealous of Puck Connolly? I'm paying absolutely no attention to Tempest now. Why would I be jealous? I inwardly scoff. What does Puck have that I don't? Family is the first thing that comes to mind. Her parents may be dead, but she has her brothers. I've heard that the older one is going to the mainland, but even so, at least her brothers pay her attention. To me, Puck's life seems simple, uncomplicated. I don't know why she'd need to ride in the races—she seems to have everything she needs already. And now she's invading my friendship with Sean as well. I can't pretend he doesn't notice her. Deep down, I'm afraid that if Sean gets too close to Puck then he will leave me behind. All my life he's been my escape, my rock in the storm. I don't know what I'd do if I lost that. And, if I'm honest, I've always been rather proud of my relationship with Sean. I'm the only person on the island who is really close to him and it gives me a feeling of importance because Sean is considered so unapproachable. All these thoughts bring darker questions to mind that I don't want to consider. I shake my head, dislodging the thoughts like the raindrops that have collected on my hood. The rain is falling harder now and the cloud cover is so thick that the island is almost cast in twilight. It's time to head back.

Looking around, I suddenly realize that Tempest is trotting down the path to the beach. My heart beats a little faster. The path is too narrow for me to turn Tempest around now. I'll have to wait until we're on the beach, closer to the ocean and any other riders who might still be out in this weather, before I can turn back. I pull an iron rod from my pocket and keep it tucked in my hand just in case. My lips automatically begin to whisper to Tempest, but my mind has no idea what my mouth is saying. I shiver. The wind whistles through the passage, whipping my wet hair across my face and neck. The rain cuts cold against me, soaking into my coat and jeans. I grip Tempest's reigns tighter and squeeze him with my knees. Above all else, I want him to know that I am still on his back and I am in control. At least, that's what I tell myself. I wish Sean were here. I would feel more comfortable with his steady presence and Corr's strong, muscular body to impose between myself and danger. Then I shake my head. Isn't this what I've been waiting for? The chance to prove myself against Sean? This might be it. I draw my shoulders back and sit tall in the saddle, despite the driving rain. In a move that is probably more stupidity than boldness, I urge Tempest into a canter and burst out onto the beach. Unexpectedly, a flaming tongue of lightning strikes out in the ocean, only a few yards off Thisby's coast. Instinctively I draw Tempest to a stop so hard that he rears, throwing wet sand from his hooves. I must admit, what I had hoped to be a rather unobtrusive, casual entrance to the beach turned into something rather dramatic and flashy. Unfortunately there were still quite a few riders on the beach, among them Mutt Malvern, and my entrance did not go unnoticed, least of all by him.

"What was that, Fisher?" he taunts from farther down the beach. "Practice for when you win the Scorpio Races?"

"Maybe it was," I reply haughtily. I'm in no mood to deal with Mutt now.

"Better be rethinking your plans then," he sneers, as he goads his piebald mount towards me. _That must be Skata_, I think as he continues, "We all know I'm going to win."

"After you've lost for the past four years?" I demand.

Mutt growls something incomprehensive and unpleasant. "I'd watch my tongue if I were you, Fisher. After all, Sean Kendrick isn't here to protect you this time."

I cast a quick glance around the beach. The few other riders on the sand are, for the most part, too busy with their own _capail uisce_ to pay any attention to me and Mutt. Unfortunately, in this case, Mutt is right. There's no one down here to save me if this comes to a head. Tempest dances restlessly beneath me. He's uncomfortable standing this close to the piebald mare. Up close, she's a demon with a sharp face and cruel eyes. I can tell that, despite Mutt's outward confidence, he's barely keeping the mare under control. In this worsening weather, his grip on her will only lessen.

"It isn't me who needs protecting," I say, but I'm referring to more than this little spat. I'm referring to the vicious animal Mutt's legs are wrapped around. Mutt doesn't catch my inferred warning.

"Is that right?"

I don't answer him. Instead I back Tempest a step or two away from Skata. Tempest is all too willing to comply. For a _capall_ stallion to be this concerned over a mare means she really is wicked. Mutt notices the action and urges Skata forward.

"Scared, Fisher?" he asks as Skata tosses her head, her sharp teeth snapping just inches from Tempest's face. A warning thrum emanates from deep in Tempest's chest. Mutt laughs.

"Back your horse off, Mutt," I frown. I'm glad to hear that my voice is steady and sounds more angry than afraid.

Mutt grins evilly and presses Skata forward again. Tempest instinctively backs away, but he's backing into a corner. I wasn't very far from the cliff passage when Mutt first rode up to me, and now, because Tempest has backed away and to the side, my back is to the cliff wall. The passage to the top is off to my left. Sharp cliff walls stretch to my right and the piebald mare looms, close and threatening, right in front of me. I'm afraid that if she keeps pressing Tempest, he will fight back and I know that, no matter how much we think of ourselves, neither Mutt nor I are experienced enough to pull them apart if it should come to that. Tempest stiffens beneath me and snaps back at Skata as she advances.

"Back your horse off," I say again, this time with a note of urgency bordering on panic in my voice. I don't care if Mutt knows I'm scared now. If he isn't, he's an idiot.

"You don't look so good," Mutt jeers. "If Skata is too much for you, maybe you should pull out of the races. After all, there'll be a lot more _capail uisce_ on the beach come race day."

It's not just Skata that scares me. If she were on her own, it's very possible that Tempest could outrun her or, if he had to, outfight her, but with Mutt on her back, goading her on, she's a lot more dangerous and temperamental. Tempest can sense Skata's actions and react accordingly, but with Mutt exercising even what little control he does have on her, he throws an unexpected element into the equation. As her rider, he can make snap decisions and cause Skata to take a direction that might not be her natural instinct. If he does that, Tempest's natural reactions could be thrown off. It's up to me to watch Mutt and gauge my instructions to Tempest from his movements. I decide to try a simpler approach and back down.

"Look, Mu—Matthew," I try to be as polite as possible. "All I want to do is go home. I don't want to pick a fight with you. I'm not interested in staying here any longer than I have to. Will you please just let me go?"

"Oh, really?" Mutt laughs derisively. "That's not what it looked like earlier. No, it looked like little Fisher here was trying to show off her big, impressive new horse. That's what it looked like to me." Mutt is nearly yelling now, as if I'm not right in front of him and I can't hear him. "And I say, if it's a show she wants us to see, then it's a show we'll get!"

Without warning, Mutt launches Skata towards Tempest. At the same moment a jagged flash of lightning rips the air over our heads, momentarily blinding me. Tempest springs forward, whether to get away from Skata or to meet her head on, I can't tell. I grip his reigns tightly and squeeze my legs around him in order to avoid being unseated. I hear Mutt's laugh echoing off the cliffs behind me. The next thing I know, Tempest has ducked under and away from Skata's vicious bite, sliding us out toward the open beach. I gather the reigns and my wits and spur him out toward the sea. It may be the most dangerous place for me to be right now, but it's also the safest.

Like the idiot that he is, Mutt follows me out into the surf. If it were me on that piebald, I wouldn't take her anywhere near the water, even on a calm day, much less in this rapidly approaching storm. Already the wind howls around us and thunder rolls across the sky, lightning hard on its heels. I turn Tempest in a sharp circle, away from Mutt and aiming back towards the beach, but he cuts me off. Tempest dances backwards as Skata suddenly thrusts her sharp teeth in his face. He lashes back at her. She doesn't recover fast enough and he bites down across the narrow ridge of her nose. Skata screams and pulls away, wrenching herself from Tempest's jaws. Tempest lets her go without a struggle. He was warning her, but she pays it no attention. Blood drips down her nose now, but Mutt seems not to care. He laughs as lightning flashes, momentarily lighting the beach as bright as day.

"You know, Fisher," he calls to me. Even though we're close to each other, I can hardly hear him over the rain which is pouring down in hard, stinging bursts. "Accidents happen during training. This beach is painted with the blood of countless riders before us."

I'm caught off guard by his words and wondering where he's going with this when suddenly it hits me. Mutt is looking to make me another 'accident.' A casualty of training for the races. My stomach twists with fear. Mutt is angry and I don't know how far he will carry that anger into physical violence. He may just be aiming to cripple me or Tempest, but he may also be attempting to kill one or both of us. He obviously thinks I'm a threat to him and he wants to eliminate me. A steely resolve settles on me. If those are Mutt's intentions, he'll find that I won't go down without a fight. But however this ends, it needs to end quickly. The beach has already emptied of what few other riders had remained and it's only minutes until the _capail uisce_ will climb from the sea, blood-thirsty and on the hunt.

Mutt has left me only one option. It's time to see if Tempest can really outrun this monster of a mare. I back Tempest up, preparing to give him room to get a head start on Mutt and make a dash for the cliff trail when Skata suddenly lurches toward the sea. Tempest starts forward immediately, exploding into a gallop from a dead standstill. He leaps out of the surf and hits the sand running. Halfway up the beach I hear the piebald scream and I rein Tempest in. He sits back on his haunches as I draw him to a stop. Tempest whinnies at me as if to ask if I'm crazy as I turn him back toward the sea. Maybe I am crazy, but there was something in the mare's scream that sounded dangerous and deadly. Something that warns me that if I don't intervene, it will be the death of Mutt. And much as I dislike him, I can't stand by and watch him die. I gallop Tempest back down the beach and out into the surf once again. Skata is out in water nearly to her chest. The toes of Mutt's boots brush the water and the waves wash nearly up to his calves as they roll in. And then I hear it. An answering call to Skata's scream. I have only seconds to get Mutt back on the beach before the _capail uisce_ start coming out of the water.


	11. Chapter 11

**For those of you who just couldn't wait...here it is ;)**

**Chapter Eleven**

**Bay**

"Mutt!" I yell as I urge Tempest out into the sea. The waves are choppy now, crashing onto the beach in rapid succession. Thunder growls almost continuously over my head and lightning gives the world an ugly glare every few seconds. Mutt turns to me with a look of surprise on his face. Whether it's from the fact that Skata is so far out in the sea or from the fact that I turned back to help him, I can't tell, but it quickly turns into a snarl.

"I don't need your help, Fisher!" he shouts.

"Don't be a fool!" I yell back as Tempest draws level with Skata. He's tense beneath me and ready to fight at the slightest provocation. I rub his neck in comforting circles with my iron bar; whispering would be useless in this downpour. _Just keep it together, Tempest_, I silently plead him. _Just give me the strength to keep it together_, I pray as I make a grab for Skata's reins. Mutt viciously saws on them, drawing her head away from me. My fingers close over empty air and I nearly overbalance. Sitting back up, I wipe rainwater from my eyes. "Do you want to die?!" I demand. "Give me her reins!"

Mutt yells something negative back at me, but thunder drowns his words. I squeeze my eyes shut in preparation for the lightning that I know will follow. I see it as a bright red flash behind my closed eyelids. As soon as the flash fades, I open my eyes and make another lunge for Skata's reins. This time I push Tempest a little closer with my knees as well. Still recovering from the lightning, Mutt doesn't react in time and my fingers solidly snag Skata's reins, close to her mouth. This is where it gets tricky. I don't want Skata to break away from me, but above all else, I don't want her to be able to bite. Gripping my rain-slick saddle between my legs with as much force as I can, I reach into my sweatshirt pocket and pull out the iron wedge I used almost two weeks ago on the _capall uisce_ that the mainlander tried to catch. Tempest shifts under me and I nudge him with my heels, reminding him that I'm still in control even though I'm not holding his reins. Mutt and I lunge forward at the same time. Mutt tries to dislodge my hand from Skata's reins, but I hold on with a death grip and shove the wedge into Skata's mouth, flicking the catch that flips it open. Skata suddenly finds herself in a most uncomfortable position and missing much of her main attack option. Before Mutt can try to rip her reins from me again, I loop them several times over the pommel of my saddle. This draws Skata closer to us, but at the same time it prevents her from lashing out with her hooves. Now my primary concern is Mutt. I gather Tempest's reins again and kick him into a canter toward the beach, forcing Skata to follow. Mutt leans across her saddle and tries to hit me, but I sway out of his reach. Perhaps Tempest can sense something I can't, but he speeds up, throwing more weight behind his pull, yanking Skata into a reluctant gallop. Seconds later I hear it again. The _capail uisce_ are growing closer and more restless. As of yet, none of them have ventured from the sea, but it is only a matter of time. I guide Tempest directly for the path to the cliff top. Mutt yells abuse and threats as Tempest continues to drag Skata away from the sea, but I don't pay him any attention. At least he isn't trying to hit me anymore. My ears are tuned for only one sound over the thunder and rain—the faint pound of hoof beats behind us. But we reach the path without incident and though it's a very tight squeeze with Skata so close to Tempest, we race up the path and burst out on top of the cliffs in a peal of thunder. As soon as we're over the top, Skata draws level with Tempest. Mutt looks murderous, but I am not going to pick a fight. As quick as I can, I unwrap Skata's reins from my pommel and fling them in Mutt's face, momentarily distracting him. Skata still has my wedge in her mouth, but I'm not about to try and pull it out now. Maybe Sean can get it back for me later.

As soon as we reach the cliff top a scream cuts across the beach, louder than the rumbling thunder. Mutt and I both look down to see two _capail _stallions pull themselves from the waves onto the sand. Skata answers the stallions with a high whinny, drawing their attention to the cliff top. They begin trotting up the beach, teeth bared in anticipation. Tempest knows as much as I do that this situation will quickly turn from bad to worse if we hang around any longer. He springs smoothly into a steady gallop, slowly pulling away from an angry Mutt and Skata. Mutt gives chase, but half-heartedly. He's seen what climbed out of the sea, and much as he values his confidence and abilities, he at least has the sense to recognize that he has no chance against two wild stallions. Mutt kicks Skata into a gallop. Skata, sensing a chase, responds eagerly. Tempest merely puts a little more length in his stride and keeps ahead of the piebald by a horse-length. Mutt only keeps up the pretense of chasing me as far as the Malvern Yards, where he veers off, probably as much to get himself out of the rain as anything else. I keep Tempest in a run until we reach my driveway, just in case any _uisce_ get the idea to follow us, but we arrive home without any unwelcome followers. I ride Tempest into the yard and dismount, wet, cold and tired, but I smile as I untack Tempest and bed him down in his stall. If nothing else, I have proved one thing. Tempest is stronger and faster than the piebald mare.

* * *

><p>Dad is in the living room with a newspaper when I let myself into the house. I don't know if he's actually reading it or if he's just fiddling with it to occupy his hands. Something is on his mind, I can tell from the way that he is never still, constantly moving in his chair, folding the paper, unfolding it, crossing his legs, uncrossing them. I pause for a moment in the doorway, dripping pools of water onto the worn wooden floor. Dad looks up and his eyes soften with relief when he sees me.<p>

"Bay," he says quietly. "I thought you might have been—Never mind, you're home," he says hurriedly, returning to his usual gruff manner. For a second, I cherish the momentary concern in his voice, but his next words steal whatever comfort I might have briefly reveled in.

"Malvern made me a deal, Bay. We need to talk."

I don't know how to answer, so I just stand in the doorway shivering in my soaked sweatshirt and jeans. My thoughts are jumbled. I already know what deal Dad is referring to, but I can't let on that I eavesdropped on him and Malvern last night. I open my mouth to speak and close it several times; I can't think of anything to say.

Dad sighs. "Stop standing there like a fish out of water and go get some dry clothes on. I'll explain why I listened to him when you get back."

Dad has misinterpreted my shock. He thinks I am stunned at the fact that he actually talked to Malvern in the first place. I swallow and nod and step quickly down the hallway to my room to avoid giving myself away. Peeling myself out of my wet clothes is hardly pleasant so I change quickly into a pair of sweatpants and a baggy, long-sleeved t-shirt. I towel my hair dry as best I can and shuffle reluctantly back to the living room.

Dad is perched on the arm of his chair when I get back and he gestures toward another chair as I step into the living room. Thankfully, there is a fire blazing in the grate and I gratefully sink into a chair near the crackling warmth, facing Dad. "So, you talked to Malvern?" I ask tiredly to start the conversation.

"Look, Bay," Dad begins one of his speeches. He's obviously been thinking about this conversation for a long time. "Money is tight—" he holds up his hand to stop me from interrupting, "—as you well know. Malvern came to me with a deal that could put us back on our feet and give us new opportunities. It might even get you away from working for the man."

My eyes widen. I didn't even think Dad paid enough attention to my life to know I'd been working for Malvern.

"I'm not blind, Bay. Your money was coming from somewhere. I only had to ask a few questions around town. And you spend so much time with that Kendrick boy anyway; it was a logical assumption in the first place." Dad continues, "This deal will also take you out of the races. I know you think you have to compete in this contest, but it's a devil's game. I…I don't want to lose my only daughter like I did your mother—"

"You won't lose me!" I say angrily, standing from my chair. "These races aren't a devil's game. They're—they're a...race," I finish lamely under his stern gaze.

"And a death trap," Dad points out heatedly. Outside rain lashes the windows with single-minded fury.

"Sean Kendrick has survived them for four years," I say. "And several men on Thisby have survived long enough to retire out of them."

"Several _men_," Dad emphasizes in a low voice. "Sean is a man, Bay Fisher. You, clearly, are not." When Dad calls me by my first and last name, his patience is wearing very thin. "The races were never designed for women to ride in them."

"Puck Connolly is riding."

"Puck Connolly isn't my daughter."

I struggle to come up with an argument to that, but Dad speaks first. "Sit down and listen to me. Let me finish."

I sink back into my chair, hardly placated.

"Malvern will buy that stallion of yours out there for a tremendous sum. Just think about it, Bay. I can get a better job, we can fix up the house—you're always complaining about the state of it—we can—"

"No," I say quietly, vehemently.

Dad's eyes narrow. "What?"

"No." I sit up straighter and look Dad in the eye. "You can't sell Tempest, least of all to Malvern. I won't let you."

"Young lady, you have no control over that."

"Tempest is my property, Dad. I caught him. I own him. You can't sell him without my consent."

"And yet you ride in these races without mine. Your very ownership of that beast is entirely without my consent. I am your father!" Dad shouts. Thunder rattles the windowpanes as if emphasizing his words.

"You never cared enough to give your consent to anything I ever wanted in the first place!" I yell back, standing again. "Ever since Mom died, all you've cared about is yourself and your memories of her. You've never paid a scrap of attention to the real live daughter who's shared your house for the past eighteen years." I'm angry and frustrated and at my breaking point, so I forge on, "If you've ever wondered why I spend so much time with that Kendrick boy, it's because he loves me more than you do!" My words tumble from my mouth in a rush, my brain hardly registering what I'm saying. _Sean loves me? _Somewhere in the back of my mind my subconscious questions the brashness of that statement. "When I was little and afraid, it wasn't your arms I ran to, it was his. It wasn't you I talked to when I was unsure of what to do, it was Sean! And now you want to tell me that I can't race because I don't have your consent? Well, I have Sean's consent, and that's all that matters."

"Bay," Dad seethes, stepping closer to me. I step back and my knees hit the chair behind me. With a gasp I fall into it. I don't think I've ever seen my father this angry. There is a foreign light in his eyes that frightens me and I don't know whether to hold still or attempt to run. Dad leans over me, putting his hands on the arms of my chair. We're very close; I can smell a hint of alcohol on his breath.

"Is that what you think?!" he shouts even though we're mere inches apart. "Is it?" he demands when I don't answer.

"Yes," I whisper, tears stinging my eyes.

"Everything I've ever done was to protect you from your mother's fate, Bay Fisher," he whispers so low and harshly that the words barely register on my ears. "All those times I refused your wishes, all those times I wouldn't let you go somewhere or do something. Everything," he emphasizes.

"What about all those nights you came home drunk?" I dare to ask. "Or those times you didn't come home at all?"

Dad makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and suddenly stands up, turning his back on me and crossing his arms. "That is beside the point—"

"Is it?" It's my turn to challenge.

Dad turns back to me, his brow drawn with anger. "Yes. It is," he says very plainly. But I'm not done with the subject.

"Or is it just because you're too proud to admit that you're wrong sometimes?" I'm crying freely now, but I don't know whether the tears are from anger, frustration, or sadness. I don't want to argue with my dad and I know it's wrong but I feel so helpless to stop it. A voice in my head keeps telling me to shut up and quit digging myself in deeper, but another one tells me I'm already in over my head so why not keep going?

"Is it right for you to deliberately disobey your father? Is it right for you to own a bloody man-slaying beast?"

"Tempest isn't a man-slayer!"

"What if he tries?" Dad says. "Can you stop him, Bay?"

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. Could I stop Tempest? I'd like to think that I can. That I have all his instincts under my control. But the stark, honest truth is if Tempest ever really goes for the kill, I can't hold him back.

"Malvern can't stop him, either," I say instead. "He'd still be as much of a danger in his hands as in mine." I'm grasping at reasons why Dad shouldn't sell Tempest.

"When Malvern owns the beast, then it isn't my problem."

"Malvern will never own Tempest!" I yell, returning to our original argument. "Haven't you listened to a word I've said?"

"You haven't heard anything I've said this whole night, Bay! Do you expect me to listen to you?"

"It might be nice for once!"

Dad opens his mouth to say something, but I don't wait for his reply. Exploding from my chair, I spin on my heel and run—away from the living room, away from dad, away from myself. Behind me, Dad shouts my name, but I don't look back and dash recklessly through the kitchen to the door. Yanking it open I run out onto the porch, pausing only for a moment as the torrential rain and wind tear at my clothes. Lightning races in jagged streaks across the sky and thunder rumbles, but I don't care. I only want to be with Tempest. With someone who will understand. With my last friend in this dark night. I know I can't make it to Sean's house in this weather, so Tempest will suffice. Running blind, I throw myself from the porch and am immediately hit with a wall of rain.

"Bay!" Dad has followed me to the doorway. Whatever he says next is drowned by a high, blood-curdling scream—the call of a hunting _capall uisce._ My heart pounds a broken rhythm against my chest as my eyes desperately search the darkened yard for any sign of the _uisce_, but they find nothing in the shadows. I know I am being foolish, but I keep running. The barn is only a few feet away, though I can barely see it through the dark and the rain. What I do see next makes my heart stop.

Lightning strikes in a ragged flash somewhere very close by and for a moment, the night is as bright as day, lit with an ugly, harsh glare. And towering over me, face to face, is a giant black _uisce_ stallion, fangs bared in a hungry snarl. I do the only thing that comes to mind. I scream. I've never screamed more loudly in my life. It is the sound of pure terror, ripped from me in a panic. I have no idea how to react; my entire body is numb. Dumbly, I stagger back a step as the stallion arches his neck, preparing to lunge. Just as he lunges, I hear a sharp crack and something flies past my face so close, I feel it. The stallion lurches, as if hit, and throws his head back, screaming in pain. With a shrill shriek, he crashes to the ground at my feet, already writhing in a rapidly spreading pool of his own blood. I glance back to the doorway where my dad stands, feet braced apart, rifle still to his shoulder. I look back at the _capail uisce. _My breath comes in hard, heaving gasps and I feel as if I will be sick. The sleek animal now stiffening in its own blood could just as easily have been Tempest. Or Corr, or Penda. Or the piebald or Tommy Falk's black mare. It makes me wonder if it is all worth it. Can we really trust these beasts or are we just fooling ourselves in order to indulge in our fantasies? I can't tear my eyes away from the horse. I don't know exactly where Dad shot it—it's too dark and there's so much blood and water—but death came almost instantly. Any one of those beasts could do the same to me. To Sean. To any of us. Trembling uncontrollably I turn and run as fast as my shaking legs will carry me. Back to the porch and into Dad's arms. He wraps me in a strong embrace, stroking my hair, like he used to a long time ago, when I was little and Mom was still alive.

"Hold me," I whisper, my tears soaking his shirt.

His arms tighten around me, but he doesn't say anything. And for a few precious seconds, I can forget our argument, I can forget Malvern…I can forgive.

For one perfect moment, I am _safe_.


	12. Chapter 12

**Don't have too many author notes on this one.  
>Since the book shows this scene more from what happens to Corr, I thought I'd show you what happend to Prince.<br>Remember how the last chapter** **ended...**  
><em>For one perfect moment, I am safe.<em>

**Chapter Twelve**

**Bay**

Something on the edge of consciousness wakes me early Tuesday morning. Something that, even in sleep, my subconscious knows is out of place. It takes me a while to figure out exactly what it is. Then I realize that there is no rain pounding my roof and no wind beating down my windows. The storm is still; it must've rained itself out sometime late last night. Without the constant drum of the rain, it is unnaturally quiet. There's just enough light in my room to make out the clock on my bedside table. The faintly lit face shows six o'clock. The world is silent, wrapped in the last shreds of night. It shrouds everything like a cloak, unwilling to be chased away by what faint daylight pierces the ragged clouds that run across the sky. Quietly, I untangle myself from my blankets and roll out of bed. The house is still, so Dad is either asleep or already gone. Slipping into my bathroom I quickly comb out my hair and braid it, then wander back into my room. Pulling a pair of jeans and a relatively clean shirt from a pile of clothes at the foot of my bed, I dress and grab my sweatshirt, the one with the torn pocket. Carefully, I raise my window and slide my leg over the sill as I pull the sweatshirt over my head. Sliding down to the ground, I ease the window shut, shivering in the chill October morning. Dad's truck is still in the driveway, as is the motionless form of the dead stallion. I give both a wide berth and head for the barn.

Tempest is restless and Selkie is near panic when I open the barn door. Being cooped up together during the storm has done nothing to ease their relationship. Though to Tempest's credit, he appears to have remained rather calm. At least he didn't try to bust out of his stall or go for Selkie. I take Selkie out of the barn first, turning him out into the pasture to calm his nerves. He looks at me accusatorily as I clip a lead onto his halter. He keeps his ears flattened until we walk past Tempest. Once I let him loose in the pasture he snorts haughtily and moves to the far end of the fence, where he immediately begins to crop the grass. Shaking my head, I head back inside and, grabbing a brush, let myself into Tempest's stall. Tempest greets me tensely and I start rubbing circles across his nose to calm him. As I move my hand across his face and down his neck I whisper to him. The words are nonsense, meaningless, but Tempest understands. I begin to comb out his coat, rubbing him systematically. It soothes us both. And then I find myself talking to Tempest, telling him of my and Dad's argument last night, of the dead _capail _that still sprawls in our driveway, of my thoughts and fears—everything. Though I know Tempest can't answer, it's still a comfort to tell someone. My voice settles Tempest even further and he's nearly dosing by the time I finish combing him. But as soon as I lift the brush from his back, he pricks his ears, alert and wide awake.

"Ready to go show those other riders who's boss?" I laugh.

Tempest snorts eagerly. He's still riled up from the storm and I know I'll have to keep a close reign on him today to make him listen. Slipping out of his stall, I return shortly with his saddle, blanket, and bridle. Tempest shivers as I throw the blanket over his back. Next goes the saddle and last, his bridle. Then I lead him outside, tracing counterclockwise circles on his shoulder the entire time. I lead him to the fence and mount, slinging my leg across his back. He dances a few steps as my weight settles on him, then paces forward. I tug his reigns a little harder than usual just to remind him I'm there. The sun has just risen in full, so I turn Tempest across the fields of Thisby. It's early yet to head to the beach and I want to work out some of his excitement first. Just as I'm leaving the yard, I feel eyes on me, and glancing back over my shoulder, I catch a glimpse of Dad, standing at the kitchen window, watching me. The blood rushes to my face and I whip my head back around and kick Tempest into a trot.

Tempest flies over Thisby. Together, we are one being— racing, running, flying. The wind across my face makes me squint and my fingers are soon numb with the chill. The sun breaks through the clouds with fierce intensity and the sky is a clear, bright, autumn blue. As I ride, I see the results of the storm. Leaves and branches litter the ground everywhere, some of them quite substantial in size. Every so often I can see evidence of the _capail uisce_—a giant hoof print here, a dead sheep there, long gouges in the grass, and pieces of their manes caught in fence posts or barns where the horses attempted to break through. Thisby is a real mess after the storm, everything soaked and muddy. But on Tempest none of that matters. Not Malvern, not Mutt, not Dad, not Puck Connolly…

A few hours later, I work my way down to the beach for race training. Tempest finally calmed some, though his ears are pricked excitedly and he mouths his bit impatiently. I keep my knees firmly pressed to his sides as my fingers trace his veins, rubbing circles and patterns across his withers. By the time we reach the sand below the cliffs, the beach is already full of riders, and tourists have crowded it even more, hoping to catch a glimpse of or cheer on their favorites. I don't hear any encouraging shouts in my direction, but I don't care. The tourists, and the islanders, can think what they will about me. But I know that Tempest catches more than a few eyes and prompts more than a few open-mouthed stares as I put him through his paces. I keep him close to the surf, closer than anyone other than Sean would dare take a _uisce_. In some ways I'm testing the riders, taunting them to follow; in some ways, I'm testing myself, seeing just how far I can take Tempest and still retain control; and, if I'm honest, I'm showing off, just a little, to everyone on the sand. As I ride, I keep a sharp lookout for Sean or Corr, knowing that if I find one, the other will be very close by. I see neither Sean's familiar dark hair and eyes, nor Corr's blood-red coat. It strikes me as odd that Sean isn't down here but maybe something held him up at the Yard today. That's when a commotion farther up the beach, towards the path from the cliff-tops, catches my eye. Slowing Tempest, I trot him closer to see what's happening. I catch a glimpse of Corr's sharp, red ears and distinct face—but it isn't the usual lithe figure I expect holding his reigns. It's Mutt Malvern. Walking with him are Prince, Daly, and a couple other Malvern Yard hands. Already a crowd of tourists forms around Mutt. He's smiling and boasting like he's already won the Scorpio Races. An uneasy feeling settles in my stomach. There is no way Sean would ever let Mutt even touch Corr under normal circumstances. So where is Sean now and why didn't he stop Mutt? My mind conjures an awful image of Sean's broken body lying in a Malvern Yard stall, blood covering the floor around him. My eyes roam the beach, desperately searching the crowds for his dark eyes and serious expression. I can't stop the sigh of relief that escapes me when I spot him pressed against the cliff wall as if he is holding it up. He has one hand clamped across his stomach, the other to his lips. He looks as if he will be sick. And I know why. Because I feel it too. We both know that, eventually, someone will pay for Mutt's foolishness—with their life. And there isn't much either one of us can do to intervene. I want to go up to Sean and comfort him, but then again, I don't. Something about his posture and the tight set of his mouth tells me he doesn't want anyone right now. I shoot a glance at Mutt, who's stoking up the crowds. When I look back at Sean, he's not alone anymore. In just the few seconds I looked away, Puck Connolly has slipped up to him like a wraith. Not speaking, just standing.

Anger boils up in my chest and I automatically resent Puck's show of concern—and Sean's acceptance of it. The fact that they're not speaking bothers me even more. Because it means Sean accepts her presence and she knows him well enough not to intrude on his thoughts. Frowning, I turn my attention back to Mutt just as he throws a nail-studded coat across Corr's shoulders. Corr shudders and shifts restlessly. Though I can't see them, I can hear the bells Mutt has tied to Corr's feet. Red ribbons dangle from every available space of Corr's saddle. My thoughts turn dark at Mutt's mistreatment of Corr, silently calling him every despicable name I can bring to mind and half-hoping Corr will devour him alive. While it's smart to safeguard yourself against the _uisce_, overdoing it only aggravates them. And in Corr's case, Mutt doesn't need any of his useless frippery. Sean certainly never uses any of this on Corr. Mutt's only intentions are to rub as much dirt in Sean's face as he can. But why? I get the sinking feeling something has happened that I'm unaware of, and it's not a good thing. I'm torn between going to Sean and attempting to stop Mutt.

Handing Corr's reigns off to Prince, Mutt mounts, swinging across the stallion's broad back with a cocky air. Looking back to Sean, I catch his eye. But then Puck speaks to him and he looks away. It's the first time Sean has ever looked away from me first. He answers Puck and she says something back.

Before I have time to properly react to that, everyone's attention is drawn back to Mutt as he shouts over the crowds.

"Who wants to see me ride him? Huh? Who wants to see him run?" Mutt yells, waving his arms grandly in the air. The crowds cheer wildly, chanting Corr's name. But it isn't Mutt, or even Corr, that my eyes are locked on. It's Prince. Prince stands, relaxed, casually holding Corr's reigns, neither approving nor disapproving Mutt's actions. Corr dips his head, brushing Prince's chest. Prince laughs softly and shoves Corr's head away, like I would do with any normal horse. But Corr is no normal horse. I know what's about to happen.

I kick Tempest into a gallop, racing to get closer to Corr and Prince. At the cliff, Sean has moved away from the wall, his eyes watching Corr warily. Corr nudges Prince again, and again, Prince pushes back. Mutt is oblivious, still catering to the crowds, but that's when Sean explodes. He shouts Prince's name and takes off running, kicking up sand as his feet strike the ground. At the same time, I draw Tempest into a thundering stop, spraying more sand. I vault off Tempest's back and head for Corr. But neither Sean nor I are fast enough to stop what happens next.

Corr pushes against Prince again, but this time, something in the stallion snaps and his head shifts, his sharp teeth closing on Prince's neck. Blood stains everything. Mutt reacts violently, pulling Corr up into a rear. The tourists scream and scatter as they realize what has just happened. I have to fight my way through them to even get close to Corr. Incensed and panicked, Corr rears again, throwing Mutt, who just manages to roll clear of the deadly hooves. By the time I get close, Sean has already reacted, pulling off his jacket and shirt. He wads his shirt and presses it firmly to Corr's nose, whispering into the stallion's ear. There's nothing I can do for Corr or Sean right now, so I turn my attention to Prince. I hardly noticed before, but Puck is here too, kneeling in the sand beside Prince and clutching his hand, horror written all over her features. I kneel on the other side of the dying man. I know I can't save him. Puck's eyes meet mine and there are tears shining in them. I look away as I fight the urge to vomit. Prince is dying in his own blood, just like the _capail uisce_ Dad shot Sunday night. My mind can't reconcile the two events. My very being rejects the idea that Prince is dying. He just can't be. It's all Mutt Malvern's fault. My eyes roam the remaining people, mostly islanders, for the fool. I find him standing, feet apart, arms crossed, surveying the whole scene with the air of a spoiled child whose great joke has just been foiled. He doesn't even attempt to help Sean, who now has his shirt wrapped over Corr's head and is stroking the stallion's neck reassuringly. He doesn't seem to care that a man who was alive only seconds ago is dying for his blind pride. I almost wish it was Mutt lying in the sand instead of Prince. It should be Mutt lying in the sand…

"Bay."

Puck's quivering voice brings my focus back down to Prince. I know in an instant he's dead. Choking back my fear and hate, I close the man's eyes. It only seems right. Puck and I lapse into silence, sitting immobile on either side of the dead man.

"Someone hold him." It takes me a second to realize it is Sean's voice that beaks through my thoughts and that he's asking for someone to hold Corr. I feel like I should respond, but my body just won't. On the other hand, Sean's words galvanize Puck into action and, with a start, she finally drops Prince's hand. Standing up, she numbly reaches for Corr's reigns. Sean hands them over with hardly a glance. He's too preoccupied with Corr at the moment to really care who's on the other end of the reigns.

_It should be me, _a quiet, yet forceful, voice in my head insists vehemently.

Just then, a shadow falls over me from behind and a brown jacket is thrown over Prince's face and chest, masking the worst of the blood. Then a man kneels beside me and I look up into the face of Daly, one of Malvern's youngest stable hands. He looks lost in all the commotion. The wind tugs at the open collar of his shirt and flattens his hair to his forehead, making him look very young and afraid. He shivers as the cold wind cuts him, crossing his arms over his chest. I can see the helpless hysteria that flickers just behind his eyes, barely there, but enough to affect him.

"Help me move him," I say.

"What?" Daly looks distractedly at me.

"Help me move Prince," I reiterate, gesturing vaguely to a more secluded spot, out of the way of the main beach. Out of the way of deadly hooves and proud fools. Daly finally nods comprehension and moves to Prince's other side. Carefully, we grip Prince's arms and stand. We pull him back, close to the cliff, his boots leaving trails in the sand as we walk. It is unfair that those trails will be obliterated in only seconds by thousands of feet and hoof prints, by rain and wind. Those two marks should stay, forever gouged in Thisby's sand, a testament to Prince. But already they begin to fade as the wind blows, shifting the sand. Daly and I gently lay Prince close to the cliff, sheltered by a few other rocks, where he will stay until Doc Halsal arrives and officially proclaims him dead. A few of the island men form a loose circle around Prince, quiet sentinels until the time that his body should be moved. Daly and I move back out onto the beach, towards Sean and Corr. By now, Sean has cut all the bells from Corr's feet and pulled off the heavy iron-studded coat. Corr still quivers with excess energy, but at least Sean has him under control again. Sean begins to walk Corr back up the beach. He stops in front of Mutt.

"Your horse, Mr. Malvern," he speaks so quietly that the words are barely audible, but the anger in his voice is very evident. Sean holds the reigns out for Mutt, but Mutt keeps his arms crossed, refusing to take them. Silently, Sean withdraws the reigns and turns abruptly, leading Corr away from the chaos that now rampages across the beach. He walks past me and Daly without a word, as if we don't even exist. Unexpectedly tears spring to my eyes and I quickly turn my head to hide them. As I do, I catch sight of Tempest, still standing exactly where I left him, pacing restlessly in place, ears perked and nostrils quivering. Running back across the sand, I quickly gain control of him, before the smell of blood rouses him to full hunting mode and another casualty occurs. I gather his reigns in silence, knowing that I have to talk to Sean. The last thing I see as I walk off the beach is Puck Connolly, standing on the sand, Daly at her shoulder. In her hands is Sean's jacket. She crumples the stiff material between her fingers as if she can wring Prince's life out of the blood-stained coat.

* * *

><p>I'm halfway to the cliff-top when I hear hurried footsteps and someone catches up to me, shortening their strides to fall into step beside me. I cut my eyes to the side just enough to identify the figure. It's Daly. Half of me wants to and tell him to get lost, but the other half wants to hide within his company and forget what just happened on the beach. His next words dash that idea like a stormy sea relentlessly pounding the rocks closest to the shore.<p>

"I shouldn't have let that happen," he says. "We shouldn't have let that happen." I know he's referring to all the Malvern hands who were on the beach with Mutt. I just now realize that most of them disappeared as soon as Prince's blood stained the sand.

"Why did it happen then?" I counter irritably, feeling utterly helpless.

"You don't know?" Daly looks at me in surprise.

"What do you mean?" I ask, eyes narrowed.

"If he hasn't told you yet, I'm not going to."

"Who? Sean?" I demand. Sean tells me everything. Everything. Ever since we were kids. Why would he hide something from me now?

Daly doesn't answer, but his guilty expression and hunched shoulders are answer enough. I feel as if he's just stuck a knife in my gut and twisted it. Some part of me begins to bleed to death right there, just as Prince did only moments ago. And the worst part is, I don't know how to staunch this wound. Unexpectedly, my words from last night float back to memory_, __If you've ever wondered why I spend so much time with that Kendrick boy, it's because he loves me more than you do!_I feel like Sean just flung them back in my face, without even realizing he did so. That makes it hurt all the more. I gulp back my tears and put on a straight face, wishing with all my being that Daly would just disappear. Or that the ground would open up and swallow me. Now, before anything gets worse.

We walk back to the Malvern Yards in complete silence. Even Tempest is sensitive to the tension and is unnaturally subdued. Daly makes no comment when I follow him into the Yard. He quickly disappears; presumably back to his job before Malvern finds out what happened. I head to the barn. I know Sean will be there with Corr. I take just enough time to tie Tempest securely near the entrance of the barn, away from any other horses or _capaill uisce._

Walking those few feet down the center of that barn is one of the hardest things I've ever done in my entire life. The painted _uisce_ stallions that adorn the walls and pillars of the stable stare down at me accusatorily. Their faces suddenly look sharp and demon-like; their hooves reach out to find my frail figure and crush me; their teeth search for my throat; their nostrils flare at the scent of my blood. By the time I reach Corr's stall, my own screams echo in my head. Screams that would make me mad if I ever heard them in reality. Then I see Sean.

His blood-stained shirt is draped haphazardly across the stall door. I wonder if he walked the entire way back without it. He must have been cold. But here, in the warmth of the stables, with his stallion, it is obvious that it doesn't matter to him. He stands comfortably under Corr's neck, leaning against the stallion's chest. His left arm is wrapped under Corr's throat, gently rubbing circles across the blood-red cheek. In his right hand, he absently twirls an iron bar between his thin fingers. But he never once touches a red flank with it. Sean watches the ground as he sings softly to Corr, his words carrying an eerie cadence. He is chanting Corr's language, the language of the _capaill uisce_. His words almost carry a rhythm—almost, but not quite. They are the haunting song of the restless sea, calming Corr, calling Sean. He doesn't look up when I lean on the door. For one vicious moment, I want him to sing his song in my ear. I want to feel the sea tug my heart as it does his. I want the sea to wash our troubles away as it washes the sand on the shore.

The sea, the sand, and blood—everything at the beach rushes back to me. My mind isn't fast enough to stop my mouth.

"How could you let this happen?!" I demand. Sean seems awfully calm for a man who's just had his most prized possession stolen. A man who has just stared death in the eyes. I can't contain myself any longer. "Why didn't you stop Mutt?"

Sean falls silent and looks up slowly. He knew I was here this entire time. He waited for me to say the first word. Something about that realization sends shivers down my spine. When Sean opens his mouth, his words are blunt.

"Why didn't you stop him?"

"Me? Corr is your _capall uisce_," I say heatedly.

"No," Sean whispers, a pained expression crossing his features.

I don't want to hear it. I don't want excuses; I want answers. I barrel on, "How could you let Mutt take Corr like that? You never—" I stop mid-sentence because my mind has just now registered what he really said. "What?" I whisper.

"Bay, I quit."

"I—I don't understand," I mumble.

"Malvern doesn't own my life, Bay."

I know that. But I also know that Corr is Sean's life. So, how could he quit? I know he hates Malvern. I know he wants nothing other than to have his own farm, his own land, his own home. But he'd never leave without Corr. He wouldn't leave without his dream, his memory, his life.

"Some things are more important," he says, as if he is privy to my thoughts. I can barely hear him.

"More important than what?" I spit back. "More important than Prince's life? More important than your pride? More important than Corr?" I know my last statement cuts deep. I want it to. Right now I want to cut Sean as deeply as I feel like he cut me. Sean winces; his fingers still. Corr tenses, sensing his master's discomfort.

"Sometimes, you have to let go," Sean murmurs.

"Oh? And if it comes back to you it was meant to be?" I mock him. "Sean, if you leave now, Corr isn't coming back. Malvern isn't going to hand him to you with a blessing. If you want that red stallion, you'll have to fight for him every moment of your life. How could you just give up like this? I've never known you to turn your back on a challenge."

"There's more than one way to win," he says.

"Not in this competition."

Sean sighs imperceptibly, but Corr picks up on it and brushes his head against Sean's chest. Sean's mouth tightens in a sad attempt at a smile as he gently pushes Corr's head away. And suddenly, I see Sean in Prince's place. I see Sean's blood stain the sand. I see Sean's body lying among the rocks. I remember Sunday night and how close I came to painting Thisby with my own blood.

"Sean I don't want to lose you," I blurt out, all in one breath.

Sean's head comes up sharply and he stares me straight in the eye, one eyebrow cocked.

"I've lost too much already. And I'm in danger of losing so much more. And now you —you quit," I falter. Three-quarters of me still doesn't want to believe that Sean quit. The other one fourth knows he's telling the truth and that means my world has just frayed a little more. "What will you do now?" I finally ask.

"I don't know," he admits.

Something within me breaks right then. I've never in my entire life heard Sean Kendrick admit that he doesn't know what to do. Sean has always been the one with the plan, the dream, the solid reality. I've been the one who chased clouds and got upset when they fell through. But now it seems as if everything solid in Sean's life is crumbling. And the worst part is, he can't even hold onto Corr anymore.

"Where will you go?" I venture to ask.

Sean shrugs. "Far away," he murmurs, tilting his head back against Corr's warm body and closing his eyes.

"Not off the island?" I can't imagine Sean leaving Thisby.

"No. Just far away."

Sean is already far away and drifting further as we speak. I don't know how to handle him. I don't know what to do with this startling fact. Some part of me is saddened, the rest of me is lost and…angry. Angry that Sean didn't tell me he quit. Angry that he didn't think of the consequences it would have on my life. Angry that he didn't stop Mutt. Angry that he is standing so comfortably with Corr, property that doesn't even belong to him. Angry that he let his life go so easily.

"You could have told me," I hiss, my words harsher than I intended.

"Told you what?" he asks, eyes still closed.

"Told me what you told her."

"Who?" he looks me in the eye.

"Puck."

"Kate Connolly?"

"What else did you tell her, Sean? What else should I know about?"

"I never told anyone anything," Sean returns. "Unless it was Malvern. In his case I said, 'I quit.'"

"You never told me," I say, fighting to keep the emotion out of my voice.

"That's what I said," Sean reiterates, annoyance creeping into his words. "Not you. Not anyone."

"I thought you trusted me, Sean Kendrick! I can see I was wrong!" I shout. And before Sean has a chance to respond to that, I spin on my heel and run. Away from Sean, out of the barn. I don't look back.

Sean doesn't come after me. But I can almost swear that before I leave the barn, I hear a sigh.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

**Sean**

This time Malvern told me to meet him in the hotel. I would've picked somewhere secluded. Even the tea house would be better. I'd rather feel like death than the trinket Malvern thinks I am. Bay's conversation comes back to me. Much as I might not like to admit, she is right. And so was Holly, that day on the cliffs. Malvern doesn't think much of me and he won't hand me anything with a blessing, much less the thing I want the most. I played my hand but he holds all the aces.

I peer into the hotel lobby through a small door leading to the back staircase, where I'm huddled in the stairwell, waiting on Malvern. He's late. Again. I withdraw my head quickly. I don't want anyone to see me before I have to. Malvern asked me to the hotel for only one reason. Normally I would say it's because he wants to show me off, but today he wants to show me up. Whatever he's got to say to me, he could say it at the Yard. He wants this conversation to be public. I don't like the consequences that holds for me. Frowning, I cross my arms, sorely wishing for my coat.

Why did I take Puck Connolly up on her offer to wash it? Something in me balks at the very idea that I did. Bay certainly didn't seem to like it. And that sets me brooding on other, darker, thoughts. Bay Fisher. My best friend since we were kids. She's distancing from me. And I don't know why. I know there's a lot going on in her life since she decided to race. I know Malvern wants her _capall uisce_ for reasons I can't explain. I know she hasn't had the best relationship with her dad.

_But why me?_ I can't help but ask. Earlier today she came to me at the Yard in hysterics. She barely listened to a word I said and stormed away before I could explain anything to her. Couldn't she tell I felt just as bad as she did about Prince's death? Even more so, because it was Corr who killed him and I was powerless to stop the situation until too late.

_Coward_, I curse under my breath. I don't know if I'm referring to myself or to Mutt Malvern. This is all Mutt's fault. Corr, Prince, Bay, Puck, everything. I pound my fist into my palm, thinking how good it would feel to pound it into Mutt's face. Bay did it. Why can't I?

_You forget who I work for._

Not anymore. I don't owe Malvern my allegiance. It's a strange feeling, being able to give myself to whoever I want, without Malvern standing over my shoulder dictating how I act. It's only been a few days, but already I'm lost. Not that I like Malvern. In fact, just the opposite. But without my job and Corr, I don't know what to do. That was my life. Now it's gone. I told Bay as much. Is that why she got upset?

"You're looking darker than a thundercloud, Mr. Kendrick. What's on your mind?"

I look up to see George Holly descending the stairs toward me, a rather jovial expression on his face, and something that looks suspiciously like lipstick smeared on his collar. I give him a dubious glance. He smiles broadly.

"What's on your collar?" I reply. I'm not about to spill my life to Holly, much as I like him.

"Oh, that." He pulls his collar away from his neck in an effort to see it better. "Annie," he says conclusively, as if that explains everything. In a way it does.

"Don't tell me you let Dory Maud pass her off on you," I say. Everyone on Thisby knows that Dory Maud has been trying to hand Annie off to a handsome, rich, and preferably gullible tourist for years. I thought Holly was smarter than that.

"She's not all bad, Mr. Kendrick. In fact she's quite pretty," a defensive note creeps into his voice. "Besides, I didn't come to Thisby strictly for business."

I shrug. It's not my affair. Holly can hang out in hotel bedrooms with anyone he wants. But you'd never catch me doing it.

"Now it's your turn," Holly says after a moment. "What's got you in a knot?"

"Malvern," I say, nearly wishing I did have a girl to hold right now. She'd be warmer. The wall I'm leaning against is cold as ice. I shiver.

"Ah. What else," Holly nods knowledgeably. Then he notices my shiver. "Where's your coat, Kendrick?"

"With P—" I cut myself off. I'm not sure why. "Getting washed."

"Don't you have another?" Holly asks mischievously.

I shrug.

"I see. What brings you to the hotel then? Shouldn't you be skulking about the Yards?"

"No."

"He let you go," Holly guesses, crestfallen.

I nod.

"Well." He rubs the back of his neck. "I'm sorry, old boy. I really am. Thought you meant more to him than that."

"So did I," I find myself admitting under my breath.

"Sorry, what was that?" Holly asks.

I shake my head. He lets it go. For all his boisterousness, at least Holly possesses a measure of tact.

"You still haven't told me why you're here," he presses curiously. Or perhaps not.

"Malvern told me he had an offer to make."

"In the hotel?"

"He wants it public."

"I'd watch my footing then if I were you. He wants something out of you."

I know. I want something out of him, too. I tilt my head just enough to look back into the lobby and see Malvern himself standing at the counter, talking to—Callum Fisher? For a moment, I'm taken aback. Callum Fisher hates only one thing more than the _capail uisce_ and that's Benjamin Malvern. So why would he be seen talking to him in the hotel? Tempest. I fiercely want to know what they're saying, but just as I push myself from the wall, Callum turns and strides out of my sight.

"Is he out there?" Holly asks, eyebrow raised quizzically.

"Yeah," I say casually as if I don't have more questions than answers right now.

"Well, good luck, Mr. Kendrick. It's time I was off," he winks and slips away with a wave. I watch him go then turn back toward the hotel lobby and walk through the door.

When I walk into the lobby, Bay's dad is nowhere to be seen. For a moment, neither is Malvern, but then I spot him talking with a race official near the center of the lobby. He sees me at about the same time.

"So, you came after all, Kendrick." He smiles, but his eyes are hard as flint.

I don't answer. My presence is answer enough.

"I'll be blunt with you," he says. "You want that stallion."

I nod once as he pauses.

"I'll cut you a deal then. You win this race, I'll sell him to you. You lose, and you never ask about him again."

"How much?" I ask. I know there must be a catch to Malvern's offer.

"Three hundred."

"No," I reply simply. Malvern knows as well as I do I can't pay that much. Not for several years. Maybe that's his hope. He'll keep me hanging on longer because I can't pay for Corr all at once.

"No?" Malvern seems amused. "Two-ninety."

"I'll be blunt with you, Mr. Malvern," I counter. "Two hundred." Then I add, as if an afterthought, "George Holly offered me a job." It's my last card. He can take it or leave it.

Malvern looks at me sharply. "Still think you know how to play, Sean Kendrick? Very well, then. Two hundred. May the sea hold you to it."

That's it. The conversation's over. Malvern leaves the hotel to hushed murmurings of admiration, his name whispered on almost every tongue in the room.

My name floats through the air as well, but for different reasons. I leave as the man who dared defy Benjamin Malvern.

Thisby is judge. The stakes are high. The race means more to me now than it ever has before. This year, the race is my future.


	14. Chapter 14

**I have one word: Christmas. Mine was great; hope your holidays were good too! It's funny, really, how I seem to have more time for fanfiction when I'm in shcool vs. when I'm on break. Your long wait has been rewarded...I hope!  
>Please review on this chapter, if you never leave another review for me, let this be the one-this chapter gave me some trouble in the writing, which is partly why it took me so long to post it...so I'd really value your opinions. Thanks!<br>-Luck**

**Chapter Fourteen**

**Bay**

As I walk Tempest home, my thoughts are consumed by one thing. The sigh I heard as I left the barn. Can I even call it a sigh? It was the barest exhalation of breath. But it means more to me than any words Sean could have said. Sean rarely speaks, but even rarer are the tiny glimpses of emotion that he keeps under tight reign. Today, in Malvern's stables, I think I witnessed one.

I only wish I knew what it meant. For less frequent than the glimpses are their explanations.

By the time I get back home, I still haven't answered my question but I'm much calmer than when I stormed into the Yard and lost it with Sean. I lead Tempest into the barn. He balks slightly when we reach his stall and for a second my heart leaps into my throat as I think of Prince. I shake my head to steady my nerves. This is Tempest. I trust Tempest as much as Sean trusts Corr—which means I think I know him well enough to be almost certain he won't kill me. Which means there is a logical explanation for Tempest's behavior.

Looking around, I notice the sprig of holly has fallen from where I usually keep it tucked into the lock of his stall door. It now lies across the threshold of Tempest's stall. With a smile I pick it up and slip it into the pocket of my sweatshirt.

"Silly _capail_," I laugh at Tempest. "I wouldn't hurt you."

He snorts indignantly as he walks into his stall. My father's words come to mind, haunting me: _What if he tries? Can you stop him, Bay?_ I finger the holly in my pocket. I know, without a doubt, that if it ever came to that, I would use the deadly berries on Tempest. It would be the hardest decision I'd ever have to make. I pull the holly from my pocket and turn it over in my fingers, letting it rest in the middle of my palm. So small, so red. Like blood. Like life.

Life. When it comes down to it, the question really is, who's life do I value more—Tempest's or the man he finally goes for? Tears spring to my eyes as I realize that yes, even for Mutt Malvern, I'd use the berries that rest in my hand. Admittedly, only after every other possible solution had been exhausted, but I would use them. Such a big animal and so destructive, brought down by something so small and inconsequential. I look up to see Tempest staring at my intently, black sea-storm eyes looking into my very soul. I stuff the berries back into my pocket, telling myself that I'll never have to use them.

I take my time brushing Tempest and getting him settled. Prince is still forefront in my mind and I watch Tempest's every reaction carefully, trying to get a better feel for him. Every twitch of his muscles, every turn of his ear, flare of his nostril, shift of his stance. I question what each move holds. I suddenly realize that I'm making Tempest jumpy and that I'm worrying unnecessarily. I've already tested Tempest many times in uncertain situations, whether consciously or not—handing Tempest over to Tommy, intervening between Tempest and Dad, taking Tempest into the stormy sea to save Mutt, leaving him alone on the beach today amid excitement and blood. If these events are anything to gauge by, I can rest a fair amount of confidence in Tempest. The real concern is how much confidence do I have in myself? I don't have an answer to that.

As I walk back to the house, I realize that the dead _capall uisce_ is gone now. So is Dad's truck, which means he is either at work or in town. I wonder if I will see him tonight, or even for the next couple of days. But it's early in the week yet, so I am reasonably certain he'll return tonight. I let myself in and rummage through the kitchen for something to eat. Most of my morning was taken up on the beach and then talking to Sean and I realize now that I'm ravenous. I find some leftover soup in the fridge and put it in a pot on the stove to warm up. As I wait for it to warm, thoughts run rampant in my head. Especially thoughts of Sean.

I realize that this is the second time in just a few short weeks that I owe him an apology. It wasn't Sean's fault that Prince was killed. It wasn't his fault that I was so shaken. But there is no doubt in my mind that it is his fault he quit working for Malvern. I only wonder who finally pushed him far enough to tell Malvern so.

That American, Holly, perhaps? Sean's gotten real friendly with him lately, which, for Sean, is very unusual. Sean pays more attention to Corr's tack than to tourists. So there must be something special about Holly. Not to say he isn't friendly, but he's so friendly I'm amazed Sean even deems it worth his time to look at him.

Or was it Puck Connolly? I could see that too. She's getting ever closer to Sean as well and I know she carries no love for Malvern. But what about for Sean? Does she love Sean? I shake my head. _Don't be silly,_ I chide myself. Even if she does, surely he doesn't return it. But that's not the point. Did she tell Sean to quit? And, if so, why?

By now the soup is more than warm. In fact, it's practically boiling. Laughing at myself for getting so lost in thought, I turn the heat down and get out a bowl and spoon.

* * *

><p>"So, you're back to work now?" I ask as I watch Sean wrap Corr's legs with seaweed. I'm holding Corr's head to keep him still. Even so, Sean spits on his fingers and rubs Corr's flanks every once in a while.<p>

"In theory," he says. He just finished telling me about his meeting with Malvern in the hotel yesterday. There isn't much fear of any of the grooms overhearing us this far back in the stables. The other Malvern hands tend to avoid Corr. In fact, that's why I'm holding the stallion's head, because none of the grooms will.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask. Our argument from yesterday seems forgotten. When I tried to bring it up, Sean stubbornly refused to speak. So I assume that he wants it left alone.

"I'm Malvern's until I win the races," Sean explains.

"Until _you_ win?" I prompt him.

Sean shrugs in a "why not" gesture as he focuses on Corr's legs, methodically wrapping the seaweed in straight, even lines.

"There are new racers this year, you know," I say casually.

He looks up at me as if he'd almost forgotten I'd be racing. He doesn't say anything, but I can see the determination in his eyes and the furrow of his brow as he almost frowns at me.

I take a deep breath and look away, down the row of stalls opposite me. "Complicates matters, doesn't it?" I ask, looking back at Sean, whose entire focus is back on Corr.

"Never really thought about it," he says casually, but I wonder if that is the truth.

"There's only one winner," I remind both of us, as if it is a thought that has just occurred to me. In truth, I've been thinking about it since the night my name was put on the blackboard underneath Sean's.

"But there are multiple survivors," Sean says.

I look down sharply at him, but he's not looking at me. Does he just enjoy speaking in riddles today? He looks up over his shoulder when I don't respond in any way.

"There's more to the race than winning," he says.

"Are you trying to make me feel better about losing?" I joke, but the false laughter in my voice falls flat.

"Who says I'll win?"

"You seem pretty confident."

"The odds are stacked in my favor," he points out. He's not bragging. He's just telling the truth. Corr is the fastest_ capall_ on the island and Sean is the four time champion of the races. I'm a rookie, racing on a _capall_ that's never seen the races before, much less won them. I know from experience that Tempest is fast and strong. The only question is, is he faster than Corr?

A commotion at the front of the barn suddenly draws my attention. Someone has come into the barn, someone small, a girl. Puck Connolly?

"I need Sean Kendrick," she says, her voice just loud enough that it echoes back to me in an odd acoustic trick of the ancient stables. "I've got his jacket."

I lean out of the stall just enough that I can see her silhouetted against the bright light that streams through the stable doorway. She's standing next to a groom at the front of the barn. The groom barely pauses in his work, stopping just long enough to gesture towards the back of the barn with his curry comb before going back to work.

Puck glances down the rows of stables and I draw back, hoping she didn't see me. I'm not sure why, but I want it to come as a nasty surprise to her that I'm already here with Sean. Sean seems oblivious to the conversation—if he heard any of it, he hasn't acknowledged it. He continues wrapping Corr's legs, finishing with one and moving to another.

"Sean?" the voice is closer now. Puck comes abreast of the stall door and peers in.

"Hey, Puck," I say.

She draws back fractionally as if I startled her. Which could be the case; her eyes are still adjusting to the dim light this far back in the stables.

"Um, I've got Sean's jacket…"she begins uncertainly, holding the familiar blue coat up so I can see.

"Just leave it somewhere, Kate," Sean says from the floor.

"Oh," Puck says, finally catching sight of Sean. "Uh, okay," she mumbles, searching around for somewhere to hang the jacket. I point out a small hook on the outside of the stall. She smiles her thanks and hangs the coat.

"Leaving already?" Sean asks as Puck hovers awkwardly at the door for a moment, then turns as if to walk away. Puck looks somewhat startled and even I'm surprised. How does Sean know these things when he's barely glanced up this entire time?

"No," Puck replies as if it were her intention all along to stay.

"Do you want to see him up close?" Sean asks. It's obvious he's speaking of Corr.

Puck looks the stallion up and down with an apprehensive glance, but beneath that, I can see her good eye for horses, assessing the stallion's every line and feature. "Yes," she breathes.

Sean nods at me, gesturing to the stall door with his head. I know what he means, so I open the door and let Puck in. She slides into the stall with room to spare. The Malvern stables are ancient, straight out of Thisby's past, built in a long forgotten age. Everything about them is huge. The high ceiling, the long columns down the central walkway, even the stalls. The three of us and Corr fit without crowding each other a bit. I swing the door shut behind Puck, all the while keeping a casual hold on Corr.

Corr watches Puck closely as she steps into the stall, whinnying inquisitively. Sean rubs him reassuringly and murmurs softly. Corr understands that Sean accepts Puck and he should too. The stallion thrusts his nose toward Puck, taking in her scent, as if to remember her for future reference.

Despite whatever else I might feel, I have to admire Puck. Most grown men would have been trembling in fear by now. Puck stands still, if a bit stiff, beneath Corr's scrutiny. She actually smiles as she slowly reaches a hand out towards the stallion's nose. Corr draws back with a haughty snort just before Puck's fingers touch his face, as if taunting her. But then, to everyone's surprise, he thrusts his nose into her palm. Puck jumps then relaxes, though not completely. No one ever relaxes completely around a _capall uisce._ Sean smiles from where he kneels at Corr's right hind leg and rubs Corr's flank approvingly. Corr rarely accepts anyone as quickly as Puck and I can see that Sean is pleased. Puck looks at Sean as if for a little reassurance and he nods at her so she strokes Corr's nose. Corr lets out a deep thrum of pleasure.

The scene is a bit too comfortable for my liking, so I decide to throw a wrench in it.

"Do you want to hold him?" I ask innocently.

Sean shoots me a sharp glance that clearly asks, _What are you doing?_

I ignore him.

Puck looks rather uncertainly at me for a moment then glances down at Sean. But whatever she sees on his face encourages her.

"Okay," she says.

I let go of Corr's head, so that, for a moment, all that keeps Corr in place is Sean's reassuring hand on his flank. Then Puck takes hold of his halter. I step back, a little unsure of what might happen. Sean is tense by Corr's back leg, but he holds perfectly still, knowing that if he is anxious, Corr will be too. He doesn't want Corr to make any sudden moves because he's so close to those heavy hooves.

The tension in the stall runs high and I realize just what an electric situation I've put us in. But more than half of me doesn't regret it. Then Puck reaches nervous fingers up to Corr's forehead and gently rubs his face between his eyes. Corr jumps back at first, then leans into her hand, humming in pleasure. From the floor, Sean visibly relaxes, fixing his attention on wrapping Corr's leg again. He finishes shortly and stands up, coming up to the other side of Corr's head, opposite Puck.

"He likes you," he says.

Puck grins like a silly little girl. She's obviously smitten, but with Corr or Sean, I can't tell. Probably both. I shift awkwardly in the background.

"Do you want to ride him?" Sean asks.

Puck looks up sharply and I can see the uncertainty behind her eyes. But it's obvious she wants to say yes.

"I'll ride with you," Sean prompts.

Puck just smiles and nods. I glare daggers at Sean from behind his back and I'm sure he knows it. Sean's never asked me if I want to ride Corr. He's never told me I can't either. For a moment I wonder what it would feel like to ride Corr with Sean's arms wrapped around me, the two of us a single rider astride Corr's broad, red back.

"I'd like that Sean Kendrick," Puck finally answers.

Sean smiles. At Puck Connolly.

* * *

><p>"You never asked me if I wanted to ride Corr," I say later that night over dinner in Sean's apartment.<p>

"You never asked," he says, putting a forkful of spaghetti in his mouth. I cooked for the two of us.

"Puck didn't either," I point out.

Sean shrugs. "But she wanted to."

I can't argue with that. I've never really wanted to ride Corr. I'm certainly not afraid of him, either. But there's a difference between just liking a horse and wanting to ride him.

"Why do you hate her, Bay?" Sean asks abruptly, looking me straight in the eye.

"Hate who?" I ask innocently.

"Puck Connolly," he answers even though it's obvious. It's the first time I've heard him call her Puck out loud.

"I don't hate her. Not really," I defer.

"Why'd you ask her to hold Corr?"

"I wanted to scare her," I mumbled into my water glass.

"Why?"

"Because she's in love, gosh-darn-it, Sean Kendrick!"

Sean actually spits some spaghetti out of his mouth.

"I guess you spend too much time with horses," I continue. "But that girl's head-over-heels in love with some boy, and you can bet it isn't dear old Matthew Malvern."

Sean blushes. I can't help but laugh at him. I've never seen Sean more out of sorts in my life.

"You're jealous." He hits the nail right over the head. My smile quickly disappears.

"Well, yeah."

Sean rolls his eyes. "Has the fact that I love Corr ever stopped us from being friends?"

"Has…what? No," I admit.

Sean nods. "See?"

"So you do like her."

"I didn't say that."

I laugh and Sean smiles and I know that everything is back to normal between us.

That night we flip a coin to see who gets the loveseat, like we used to do when we were kids. I get the bed. Sean throws his pillow at me and takes the floor.


	15. Chapter 15

**I know that there has been quite a long, and unexcusable, delay in this story! For that I apologize, but thank you to all of you who are still reading, and all the reviews I've gotten in my long inactivity. Granted, I was effectually without computer access for nearly three months this summer...but now I'm gonna try and get back into the swing of things. **

**-Luck**

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Sean**

Bay is pretty when she sleeps. I've always thought so, since we were kids. I pillow my head on my hands and watch her chest rise and fall with the gentle rhythm of her breathing.

It's late, but I don't look at my watch; I don't want to know what time it is. It is long past when I should be asleep. In just a few short hours, I will have to get up and begin my chores at the Yards so I can take Puck for a ride later in the day. My mind strays, calling up an image of Puck's face that day on the cliffs with the wind in her hair. I suddenly realize that she really is quite pretty. She's feisty and courageous, and not afraid to stand up to her fears, like today when she held Corr. Even so, she maintains a healthy fear of the water horses. A healthy fear that often means the difference between life and death.

I lost that fear years ago, when I lost my father. When I no longer cared anymore_._ Perhaps I should care. Perhaps I should be afraid. My absolute trust in Corr could kill me any day, but I wouldn't trade him for all of Thisby. There's something about living in the middle of the current, in constant danger of being swept away, that makes me feel alive. So alive.

In the dark, I smirk. I am feral, like the sea lapping at the beach, forever tugging, never resting, always moving. I take a deep breath. Even here, in my room above the stables, I can smell it—faint traces of salt and blood. Thisby is stained in the sea, painted in blood. Her past is inseparably tied to the ghosts of the men who have gone before me, my father included.

"Can you hear me tonight, Da?" I whisper to the stars, though they can't respond. I haven't called him Da since I was a toddler. I close my eyes and hear the sea softly swishing against the sand. I feel his hand on my shoulder, the wind in my hair. I look up into his face that night so long ago before the races. The night before he died. He looks down at me and smiles. The fierce pride in his smile is for me. I slip my hand in his big, strong one and smile back up at him.

I don't remember when I finally drift off to sleep.

**Bay**

"Are you coming with me?" Sean asks late the next afternoon. He and I are both in the loft of the Malvern stables, forking hay down into the stalls for the horses.

"Where?" I ask, standing up straight and leaning on my pitchfork. I swipe a dusty hand across my forehead, leaving dark streaks against my sweaty skin.

"To take Puck for a ride. You could bring Tempest."

I study Sean for a long moment before I speak. "No, Sean, I don't think I'll go. You offered Puck a ride, not me. If you really want to give her a ride she'll remember, it should just be the two of you."

I'm still not sure I want to be friends with Puck. I'm okay with how Sean feels about her, but I still haven't decided what I think of her. I wouldn't mind taking Tempest for a run, but I want Puck to see Corr though Sean's eyes. He wants Puck to love Corr like he does. I am not the one to show her that love.

Sean looks me in the eye. "Thanks, Bay," he says softly.

I smile. "Just think of what her brothers will say when you show up on your big stallion, asking Puck to go for a ride. I can imagine it now…" I joke. "Oh, Miss Kate Connolly, will you give me the pleasure of stepping up on this _capaill uisce_ for a moment and taking a jaunt across the cliffs with me?" I mock Sean's stiff, formal manner, something that I rarely ever do, especially not lately.

He gives me a tight-lipped stare, but I can tell it's because deep down, he's trying not to smile.

"She's meeting me," he says.

"Oh, I see." I nod my head knowledgeably, hefting my pitchfork once again.

"No, Bay, sometimes, you don't," he says, oddly sober.

I don't laugh. But I don't ask Sean what he means. This is one of those statements that he won't explain.

**Sean**

The wind tears through my jacket as I stand on top of the cliffs, waiting for Puck. It bites my face, tossing my hair and blowing my collar up against my throat. The distinct smell of November floats in the wind, a harbinger of what is to come. But she's early; there's still another two weeks of October. Another two weeks before the Scorpio Races. Another two weeks for the riders to tear each other to shreds in training. Another two weeks to die.

I'm so close to the edge of the cliff that the toes of my boots hang over empty space. The beach and the ocean stretch out below me, vast, immeasurable. The sand is teeming with the shouts of riders, the high screams of the _capail uisce,_ and the admiring yells of the tourists.

One push is all it would take. I'd be over the edge. It's a several hundred foot drop before I would actually hit anything. For those precious few seconds I would be flying. Just like when I ride Corr. For one insane moment, I wonder if it is worth it. Those few seconds of freedom for the price they would demand from me. The rocks call my name. The wind sways me, whispering death in my ear. It promises peace, but I know it is false.

And then, over the treacherous whisper, I hear something else. Something louder, more constant. Something truer. The heartbeat of Thisby herself. Pounding hooves, racing blood, the wind tearing across the beach, the soft _hush, hush_, of the surf on the sand. And I know I am anchored. Thisby holds me like a mother holds her only child. Strong, steady, always there. I can never leave. She knows this. Her blood runs in my veins.

I close my eyes and throw my head back, letting Thisby carry me away. Throwing my arms away from my body, I sway lightly with the wind to keep my balance. Behind me Corr shifts in the grass and snorts. He steps closer to me. I keep my eyes closed. I trust Corr. I trust Thisby.

A few moments later I hear footsteps. I don't turn around. The steps are soft, light, nothing like the heavy tread of the men around the Malvern Yards.

Puck Connolly. I keep my eyes closed, leaving her to Corr. Corr shifts to face her; my senses are attuned to his every movement. Despite the relaxed tilt of my shoulders, I am alert for any sign from the stallion. I am ready to burst into action at any second and tear him away from Puck. But he stays close to me, whinnying curiously. He chafes at the circle I drew around him, but he doesn't try to leave it.

Puck shifts in the grass, scuffing her foot against the ground. She clears her throat, loud enough for me to hear it, but she doesn't speak. I wait long enough to let her think before I turn around. She looks at me, eyebrow raised, letting me know that I took just long enough to be irritating. She puts her hands on her hips. She knows I ignored her. A smile tugs at my mouth and I am surprised to find that I have to fight to keep it hidden.

"Well?" she asks, tapping her foot on the ground. It's a motion meant to show exasperation, but it also cleverly hides her fear.

"He's waiting on you," I say, gesturing to Corr.

"Of course," Puck huffs as if she knew that all along, but I catch the shift of her eyes, the small dart of her tongue over her lips as she takes in Corr's size. She hesitates slightly; she's still a little nervous. Then she walks up to Corr.

"He's just like Dove," I murmur.

"Only a lot bigger," she retorts, but I can see the wonder in her eyes.

I shrug.

Puck comes around to Corr's left side. I already approve of her easy familiarity with the ways of horses. She reaches toward his back, as if to mount, but then pulls her hands back. Corr is a lot taller than Dove, a lot taller than Puck is used to, and, without his saddle, she has nothing to hold onto to mount. She glances around her. She can't mount straight from the ground as she might can with Dove.

I step up silently and lace my fingers for her. She looks as if she's about to refuse, but then she nods her thanks and steps into my hands. My shoulders tense as I take her weight, but she jumps lightly, barely standing in my hands. Puck is light and agile, like some kind of autumn fairy, born of Thisby herself. A Queen as she sits on Corr's broad back. She gathers his reigns in her hands, pulling them taught but not tight. Corr snorts; he knows that it isn't me on his back.

"Easy, boy," I whisper to him, rubbing a circle on his shoulder. "Sidestep him a little, Kate," I say. There's the smallest pout of her lower lip as I say her name, then she nods and prods Corr with her knee. I have enough practice that I could mount Corr without a rock, but not with Puck already on his back. It usually makes Corr a little antsy, even with just me. I need Corr on his best behavior today. For Puck. She steps Corr over to a nearby rock on the cliff edge and I spring lightly up behind her.

I am unsure of where to put my hands. I know that, smooth as Corr's gait is, I can't hold on without them, but I'm suddenly very unsure of wrapping them around Puck's waist. I'm hyper-aware of how close we are. Her hair brushes my face. I can feel the contour of her shoulders through my thin jacket, leaning lightly into my chest. She really is a pretty girl. I shake my head and bring myself back into the moment. I leave my hands by my sides.

"Take him out, Puck," I say, her name springing to my lips ahead of my mind this time. But she smiles, nodding.

She lifts the reigns and taps him, but Corr only shies and steps in place. Her posture takes a more determined stance and she tries again; Corr backsteps this time.

"My circle," I say to her.

"What?" she asks, turning her head to hear me better over the wind.

"My circle," I answer, leaning back to get Puck's face out of mine. There's a flicker of disappointment in her eyes when I do. "He won't go through it. Go around." I motion with my hand, just in case the wind steals my words again.

Either way, Puck understands and takes Corr around the circle. He walks out with high steps, nervous energy coursing through every fiber of his being. He wants to run. I put a steadying hand on his flank. He shudders under my touch, but he checks himself—barely. I don't think Puck realizes what raw power she holds in those slender reigns.

I let Puck keep Corr at her pace just long enough to get used to his gait_. _I can feel Corr's pent up power coursing through me, hot like fire. If I hold him back any longer, I'll burn. I lean forward, my face next to Puck's ear.

"Give him his head," I say.

She turns her face slightly; I can see the question on her lips before she even opens her mouth.

I wrap my arms around her and tangle my fingers in Corr's mane. "You're safe," I promise.

Puck's heels barely touch Corr's sides before the stallion explodes, all the raw, feral strength of the sea in every muscle. Corr flies.

I free one hand from his mane to tuck Puck's ponytail into the collar of her sweater. My fingers brush her neck for a second; her hair is soft in my rough hands. She laughs, leaning low over Corr. I lean with her, putting my hand back in Corr's mane. Puck's sides rise and fall against the circle of my arms with her breathing. Nearly lost in the beat of Corr's hooves, I feel Puck's heartbeat, strong, steady. Free. Alive.

We are one, the three of us. The wind sings in my ears, Corr's hoof beats match the rhythm of my heart. I twist tiny knots into his mane with my hands, my fingers working deftly in his rough hair. Puck sways easily with Corr's smooth gait. I sway with her. I take a deep breath, inhaling her scent—horses, the sea, and something sweet that I have no name for. The smell of Thisby. I close my eyes and let the wind take me.


End file.
